


In Bloom

by idleside



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adulthood, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Biting, Blood and Injury, Breeding Kink (light), But in turns, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Children, Choking, Creampie, Cruciatus Curse (Harry Potter), Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Dementors, Developing Relationship, Doggy Style, Existential Crisis, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Family Fluff, Femdom, First Time, Gentle femdom, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Maledom, Magic Mirrors, Magical Combat, Magical Warfare, Maledom, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Married Life, Minor Character Death, Missionary Position, Morally Grey Fleur Delacour, Morally Grey Harry Potter, No Underage Sex, Porn With Plot, Resurrection, Romance, Second War with Voldemort, Sex Magic, Sloppy Makeouts, Spanking, Switching, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, Veela Sex Magic, Veela transformation, War, Woman on Top, plot with porn might be more accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27855042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleside/pseuds/idleside
Summary: A small, seemingly inconsequential change can cause ripples which become a great wave.When Fleur makes the choice to kiss Harry goodbye before leaving Hogwarts after the Triwizard Tournament, it turns out that nothing from then onward would be quite the same.Some changes are better than what might have been. Others are worse. The rest are neither better or worse, butdifferent, and the connection between Harry and Fleur which grows in surprising leaps and bounds is one of these.They forge a bond that begins as friendship, which is then tempered in the fires of the war against Voldemort, before eventually becoming somethingmore.(AU that begins at the end of Goblet of Fire, then diverges from there. Explicit chapters/scenes are marked with asterisks)
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter
Comments: 216
Kudos: 516
Collections: Fandom_Nerd123_Fleur_Harry





	1. spring is here again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur's goodbye to Harry goes slightly differently, and from there, everything changes. 
> 
> Over the summer, they strike up the beginnings of a new friendship, but one that winds up tested by the shadows lingering over Harry more quickly than they'd have hoped.

It began with a single, impulsive decision.

“We will see each uzzer again, I ‘ope,” said Fleur as she reached Harry, holding out her hand. “I am ‘oping to get a job ‘ere, to improve my Eenglish.”

"It's very good already," said Ron in a strangled sort of voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled.

“Good-bye, ‘Arry,” said Fleur, and then, before she turned to go, she reached out to embrace him. When she released him, she pressed a quick, chaste sort of kiss to his lips; a friendly gesture, surely, nothing more.

“It ‘az been a pleasure meeting you,” she spoke, before she departed.

As she walked away, Fleur felt an uncharacteristic flash of uncertainty: _that may have been foolish of me,_ she thought, _I forget that the English are so much less open with affection. I hope that Harry does not think that I am toying with him._

Harry, meanwhile, thought “ _uhh???_ ”, as Ron made spluttering sounds long after Fleur had departed, and Hermione rolled her eyes so hard that it must have required the aid of magic to prevent them from falling out of her head.

At the time, neither would know that this quick, spur-of-the-moment action would lead to changing so, so many things that _might_ have been.

* * *

One of the more unexpected developments of the summer was that Harry began to find himself nearly _nostalgic_ about the times when his Aunt and Uncle would put him to work as something like a servant. Now that they had apparently decided to leave him mostly to his own devices (so long as he did not cause a _scene_ in public), he quickly found that _boredom_ was one of the most difficult opponents he’d faced yet.

His languishing was not improved by the strange silence from his closest friends. Ron and Hermione had barely been in touch with him, and when they _did_ write, their letters were oddly terse, straightforward exchanges of pleasantries without really _saying_ anything.

The absolutely _most_ unexpected development was the one person who did not seem as if they were ignoring him: Fleur Delacour, of all people, seemed to have been sincere about her claims to want to befriend Harry, and the letters that he exchanged with her had become something of a life-line for him, even if her insights into the Magical world were restricted to the goings-on in France.

Still, it gave Harry hope: while the events at Little Hangleton replayed in his thoughts every time he closed his eyes, it would seem that _if_ Voldemort was actually doing anything monstrous, it was subtle, not _as_ terrible as his previous reign of terror.

Even if he put aside the fact that Fleur had become his only real means of “socializing”, Harry found himself quickly growing more and more fascinated by her. He knew that Triwizard Champions (other than himself) were supposed to be exemplars of the Wizarding world, but as he came to understand just how _incredible_ Fleur was, Harry realized that his participation in the tournament (targeted plot that it was) had been even more of a farce than he’d thought at the time.

She was frighteningly intelligent, though perhaps not as _keen_ as Hermione, equally as capable at discussing obscure aspects of Magic as she was at launching into thorough analysis of art, literature, and fashion from the Muggle world. Harry, of course, was hopeless in all four regards, but he found himself beginning to feel _curious_ about learning more from her.

Her academic prowess was only a small fraction of her overall impressiveness, though. Harry regretted that, when he’d first met Fleur, he’d thought that she seemed arrogant, as he now realized that this part of her personality was actually the result of an unshakable self-confidence; it wasn’t that Fleur _thought_ she was better than other people (as someone like Malfoy would), she _knew_ she was.

Fleur’s continued interest in sending letters to him only continued to baffle Harry – though he wouldn’t dare tell her this for fear of endangering their developing friendship – as he wondered what reason someone like _her_ could possibly find to spend their time talking to someone like _him_.

At times, he’d think back on last time he’d seen her in person, until he’d inevitably begin to fixate on the kiss she’d planted on his lips and he’d have to distract himself before he thought anything _embarrassing._ He knew that it was only a friendly gesture, not due to any sort of _attraction_ to him (the idea was ridiculous enough to dismiss without further consideration), but, still. He was a teenage boy, and she was a _gorgeous_ woman.

This isn’t to say that Harry didn’t face occasional worries about this friendship: at the time, other than boredom, his greatest struggle was trying to piece out exactly what her last letter had meant.

 _“Do you have any plans for the next weekend?”_ she had asked him.

“ _Not particularly,_ ” he had replied, _“how about you?”_

 _“Good.”_ was all that her response had said, and then he hadn’t heard from her since then.

* * *

Fleur was _shocked_ when she arrived at the door of 4 Privet Drive. She knew that Harry lived with his Muggle relatives, and so hadn’t been expecting anything particularly magnificent, but the red-faced, walrus-mustached man who had thrown the door open was _not_ the sort of person that she pictured as part of Harry’s family.

“’Ello,” she had greeted him, politely, trying to keep her accent from her voice as best as she could, “I’m a friend of your nephew’s. Is ‘Arry in?”

The look of _fury_ which flickered over the man’s face was the first cause of her shock, but the words he hollered in response cemented her reaction.

“Boy!” the man yelled, scowling all the while, “one of your freak ‘friends’ is here for you, get down here!”

 _Freak?_ her blood began to run hot, and didn’t cool down even after she realized that this man _probably_ wasn’t attacking her for her Veela heritage (as many had done before).

“And you,” the large man turned his _offended_ -looking gaze to her, “get inside before someone sees you. Bloody hell, I thought you lot were supposed to be _secretive_ , and here you are standing around in public without a care in the world.”

Fleur bit back her response before she could insult Harry’s uncle, trying to process exactly what her young friend had to deal with in this house.

 _He had mentioned his relatives were particularly disinterested in the Magical world,_ she recalled, _but_ this? _This goes well beyond “disinterest”, I would think._

“Fleur?!” the person she’d come to visit announced his presence, ambling down a staircase to come meet her.

“Eet is obvious why you are a Seeker of such renown,” Fleur joked, “being _that_ perceptive.”

“Er, yes, I mean,” he scratched at the back of his head, “what’re you doing here? Not that I’m complaining, um, it’s, uh…”

Fleur couldn’t help but laugh at how obviously flustered he was. Despite the darker concerns lurking at the edges of her thoughts, his stammering confusion served as a pointed reminder of just how difficult Harry had been for her to understand, when she’d changed her mind about him several times over the course of the ill-fated Triwizard Tournament. At first, she had marked him as a _boulevardier;_ someone who coasted on his fame and fortune, but who lacked the talent to even leverage his status effectively.

After the first task, she’d revised her opinion to the exact opposite stance, beginning to believe that his shyness ( _awkwardness, even_ ) was a front disguising another person altogether: one who seemed to continually find themselves beset by foes, and yet always wound up in an advantageous position from these trials. The sort of man who came to be relied on because others assumed that they couldn’t _possibly_ be untrustworthy, thanks to their own machinations. The most dangerous kind.

The day of the _second_ task, when he’d emerged from that horrid lake with Gabrielle in his arms, had given her cause to reassess this assumption. When she employed all of her considerable social skills to try and peel back the layers of secrecy surrounding him, she had been astounded to discover that there _were_ no such deceptions; Harry was simply a walking contradiction.

_A famous hero who finds attention uncomfortable, a prodigy who genuinely believes he is nothing special, and a fearless competitor who cares not for victory or glory._

At that time, however? Fleur found reason to change her mind a _third_ time. Watching Harry’s gaze hover nervously near his uncle – _no, his so-called “guardian”, there is nothing familial about that man_ – Fleur began to suspect that Harry’s many idiosyncrasies were the result of this _upbringing,_ like silver covered in many layers of tarnish.

_And yet, he shines through regardless…_

His appearance, too, reinforced this newly-minted fear of hers. He was dressed in Muggle apparel, not unusual in itself (she was as well), but the poor fit and shabby condition of his clothing hinted that his guardians had seen fit to clothe him in cast-offs. He had grown in height over the summer, as boys his age so often did, but he looked closer to _drawn_ rather than merely gangly and coltish. While Fleur suspected that he would grow to be a handsome man, the boy before her had dark circles under his eyes and looked _tired_ more than anything else.

“ _Oui_ ,” she spoke, not letting her voice betray her concerns, “I have an interview on Monday, wiz Gringotts, and since I am here, I thought perhaps we might go for a coffee.”

“I’m more of a tea drinker,” Harry replied, “but yeah, um, that sounds great.”

“Mmh, _tea_ ,” Fleur snipped disdainfully, “eef I wanted to drink water with leaves in it, I would find a perfectly serviceable creek.”

Fleur smiled at the genuine outburst of laughter from Harry that her barb towards the national beverage of England had prompted, but _truly_ enjoyed the huffing, offended noise from the ruddy, sour-looking man who dared to pretend that he provided a _home_ for Harry.

As they left the house, Fleur decided that this would _not_ do.

* * *

Harry knew that she was intense, but hadn’t understood what a sheer force of nature Fleur was until she had decided to take him _shopping_. She had run over his protestations as if he were merely sputtering nonsense (which, for how often he found his tongue tangled around her, he may well have been), and had practically dragged him about from store to store as she _insisted_ that he required a new wardrobe.

His initial arguments (that Dudley’s hand-me-downs were _fine_ ) had been dismissed with a pointed glance at one of the larger holes in his jumper, and while Fleur certainly didn’t shy away from being openly dismissive of his initial attempts to pick something that would satisfy her demands ( _apparently green and orange don’t go together, who knew?)_ , Harry never felt as if she were mocking _him_.

He wondered if her ability to be casually contemptuous of his attempts at “style” without being _mean_ about it was one of Fleur’s unique talents, or if it might be a French thing.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _it’s even a **me** thing. _

She had even insisted on paying for the clothes she had eventually approved of, despite his repeated protests, finally shutting him up by asking him if he “thought she was some sort of imbecile who was mystified by a _credit card_ ”.

Harry had been surprised to see her navigate the Muggle world so adeptly, when even the Muggle-borns he knew (like Hermione or Dean Thomas) seemed to have fully converted to shopping at magical stores, pursuing magical hobbies, and so on.

 _Not like I’m much better on that front,_ he realized, _but I guess I still watch the telly now and then?_

This didn’t seem like a good way to argue his own proficiency when compared to Fleur, so Harry left that to his own thoughts. He couldn’t quite manage to figure out how to ask her without seeming insensitive, but he had always figured that someone who was partly “magical being” (not to mention a member of a powerful and influential family in Magical France) would have been even less likely to have learned about these mundane aspects of the Muggle world.

When they finally went for the coffee which had initially served as her reason for visiting, their conversation – under the veil of a subtle privacy charm – turned back to these more familiar topics, not that Harry felt any more well-equipped to keep up with Fleur.

“Ze interview is for a position as a junior arithmantic analyst,” she explained the job at Gringotts which had caught her interest, “I had ‘oped to get into curse-breaking, as I am more talented with runes than arithmancy, but eet is an acceptable substitute.”

“Right, yeah,” Harry agreed, and had no idea how the two subjects related to each other, “probably less interesting than curse-breaking.”

“I would not say _uninteresting_ ,” Fleur pursed her lips, “ah, but I forget myself. Have you studied arithmancy, or do you focus solely on runes?”

“Uh,” Harry felt her attention on him grow more _intense_ once more, just like it had at times throughout the entire afternoon. He couldn’t figure out what she seemed to find so interesting about his day-to-day life, but he was still happy to explain. “I haven’t taken either, actually.”

“Mm,” he felt like he wanted to escape Fleur’s gaze, but even Harry wasn’t quite awkward enough to flee from a café table with no excuse, “zat surprises me. What are the electives you study, then?”

“Er, Care of Magical Creatures,” Harry waited for a moment, continuing when Fleur nodded with what looked like approval, “and divination.”

“Ah, divination is a most marvelous ability, for those capable,” Fleur mused, “rare, as well. Are you one of zose lucky ones?”

“Uh, no, I’m not,” Harry used his coffee as an excuse to stop talking, but Fleur only continued to watch him expectantly, “the professor is, though, apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“Well, that is, I haven’t really seen proof of it, kind of the opposite really…” he frowned.

“Is zat so?”

“Well, she tends to predict my gruesome death most years,” Harry chuckled nervously, “I’ve come close enough plenty of times, sure, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Hmm,” Fleur thought about something, and Harry still couldn’t figure out what her interest in his class schedule was, “so you are taking this class… why?”

“Uh,” Harry didn’t want to admit this, but the thought of coming up with some sort of excuse seemed even _more_ foolish, “it’s… pretty easy to make grade, really.”

“You are taking a class that does not benefit you,” Fleur seemed shocked by the very _idea_ , “because it is _easy_?!”

“Well, it could be worse,” Harry argued, “at least I’m not taking Muggle studies. The last time Hermione complained about it, apparently she got extra credit for mentioning that aeroplanes exist…”

“You are serious?” Fleur threw her head back in laughter, and Harry found that he enjoyed whatever odd feeling he felt when she did so.

“As serious as can be,” he continued, “as far as I understand, the current belief is that ‘Muggle-kind continues its pursuit of granting wings to man…’”

Fleur continued to laugh, and Harry was glad to hear it.

* * *

The afternoon that she had spent with Harry had proved to be quite illuminating, but more than that, genuinely _enjoyable_. It was not that Fleur was unpopular (far from it), but her own circle of close friends was even more restricted than Harry’s, to the point that Fleur could honestly not recall the last time she’d been able to simply enjoy someone’s company.

It turned out that he had a sharper wit than she’d given him credit for, once he started to become somewhat more comfortable around her. So, too, was he genuinely insightful, particularly in his subtle criticisms of the culture of Magical Britain.

Beyond her taunting attacks on said culture, Fleur had to admit that many of the downfalls of the British were ones that the French had not managed to avoid either; though generally more open-minded than their counterparts across the channel, both had a tendency to fall into a rut where “this is the way that things are done” was rationalized with the logic of “because this is the way we’ve _always_ done things.”

Fleur grew frustrated as she thought about this inclination, though she didn’t let it become obvious enough for Harry to notice. 

The bonds of tradition were, in her mind, no better than shackles around the ankles of Wizardkind at large, but they appeared to be _particularly_ restraining in Magical Britain. She had, of course, heard of the tradition of “Pure-blood” families, but from what Harry had bitterly alluded to at times, it almost seemed as if he expected many of the Hogwarts students who claimed this status to go to _war_ against him.

This realization only seemed to redouble Fleur’s anger, as she felt her heart begin to race.

Fleur, of course, knew that this belief was meaningless drivel. The most casual comparison of Harry – a so-called “half-blood” – against his fellows who would claim better breeding should have laid such claims to rest (to say nothing of his friend Hermione, a Muggle-born whose potential was _obvious_ ), but worse than that, the British Pure-bloods were flagrant _hypocrites_.

Not merely “angry” at this point, Fleur was becoming _furious_ at the sheer audacity of these _rois de cons,_ kings of nothing but _fools_.

After all, by their measures, Fleur herself might not have even been considered a _person_ , despite the fact that the Veela half of her lineage had been born of magic, “untainted” by Muggles since before the rise of Rome. These thoughts both angered and calmed her: it was the height of Wizardly _idiocy_ that such fools might align themselves with a terrible Dark Lord simply because that _monster_ made pleasing noises about the value of their blood; but if _these_ were the sorts that might declare themselves enemies of Harry’s, then he’d only have to contend with inferior, unintelligent foes.

She would happily turn them to ash.

Fleur paused.

The afternoon had, indeed, been pleasant, which meant that the way her thoughts had turned down dark avenues, to matters of blood and war, was not merely unusual _,_ but _unnatural._

“Fleur?” Harry also paused as she suddenly stopped walking, “uh, you okay?”

While Fleur had spent her entire life enduring the prejudices of cretins who thought her Veela blood conferred “unnatural” or “freakish” abilities, these assertions were wrong because they were so underwhelmingly small-minded, not because they were _inaccurate._

“Get behind me, ‘Arry,” Fleur commanded, and she could hear the cacophonous _squawk_ in her own voice.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, smelling the air. Immediately, she was overwhelmed by the aromas of decay and rot, in a way that could not be explained by the dingy underpass that she and Harry walked through. Fleur smelled _death_.

It was almost enough to make her gag, but instead, she let _fire_ course through her veins.

As if the beings realized that she had scented them, two ghastly figures flew from the shadows, one in front, and one from behind. _Dementors_.

Fleur was dimly aware that Harry hissed a breath behind her as she surged forward, feeling painful heat flowing through her limbs as she _changed_. While she was not able to transform fully into the bird-like form that her Veela kin could assume, she was capable _enough_.

The Dementor in front of her shrieked, and she returned the cry, fire spilling from her fingertips. Like mist evaporating in sunlight, the creature _dissolved_ where she struck it, and it turned to flee just as swiftly as it had attacked. Whirling around, she saw that the second Dementor had floated towards Harry, who cursed, muttering about his wand under his breath.

As she approached, it turned its attention to her, and a vivid image of Gabrielle – half-drowned and looking as if she had already died – filled her mind.

 _Non,_ she thought, _you will not affect me, specter._

The scene melted away, replaced by a moment of triumph instead; Harry, emerging from the Black Lake, her sister safe in his arms.

Fleur did not bother to summon fire to attack her second foe, instead letting her own inner nature make itself evident, the pain rippling through her fingers a cost that she was more than happy to pay. Dementors were Dark spirits, beings whose very nature was the cold, moldering touch of the grave.

While none would be so foolish as to consider Veela beings of Light, Fleur’s blood was from beings of love and lust, of fire and revelry, of _life_.

Her fingers, long and nearly talon-like, tore through the Dementor’s shrouded body, and it screamed not in challenge, but in whatever passed for _fear_ among its kind, before it, too, fled.

Fleur’s heart continued to hammer in her ears for a moment longer, the fire coursing through her body calling for her to continue to _burn,_ insisting that she should relish in chaos, demanding that she take, take, _take._

She exhaled a long, shuddering breath as she released her instinctive grasp on her Veela abilities, one which she had not held in _years_.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, as he glanced towards her, hesitating to meet her eyes, though she was oddly certain that he was not avoiding looking at her because he feared _her_ , but out of… _guilt?_

“They will not return any time soon,” Fleur reassured him, “but we should still leave this place.”

“They were probably after me,” Harry mumbled, “sorry you got caught up in that. I should’ve brought my wand.”

“ _Non_ ,” Fleur’s voice still carried a hint of _demand_ , “it was nothing. You are safe, and so am I. Now come, we are returning you to your guardians, there is safety in the hearth.”

As they hurried back, Fleur was struck by the unsettling realization that Harry had seemed almost unaffected by the Dementors’ gruesome presence, when merely catching sight of one was known to cause full-grown Wizards to collapse in terror.

_What battles have you **already** fought? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the most-requested concepts for me to write in between Triplicity installments was a Harry/Fleur story, which is where this originated!
> 
> What began as a simple one-shot showing a snippet of adult life wound up getting larger and larger as I couldn't help but think about what events would have led there, and the result is this story: one that's going to be way too long for a one-shot, but with a shorter, more limited scope than the installments of my main series. Things will progress quite quickly in terms of how this fic lines up with the canon events; I intend for the next chapter to basically take us through the entirety of Harry's fifth year. 
> 
> As an omen of things to come, this story is one that's going to start off fairly light, but it's going to get darker and more angsty as it continues, only to eventually climb back into lighter and fluffier territory. 
> 
> Chapters containing sex scenes will be marked, but otherwise sensitive readers should be forewarned that this story will delve into some slightly-graphic magical combat in the middle parts, and that the Second Wizarding War won't generally be a _pleasant_ time for Harry and Fleur. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I always like getting comments, reviews, and feedback, and I find that reader investment helps make sure I write faster :P


	2. tender age in bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's fifth year goes by in a flash. 
> 
> He learns some new talents, which have some unexpected benefits, and by the end of the year, he's walking down an entirely different path.

The rest of the summer had been much more eventful than Harry would have anticipated from its beginnings, and he couldn’t help but shake his head at himself when he recalled the times when he’d been so foolish as to think that boredom would be the worst struggle he’d have to face.

He’d been surprised to learn about the existence of Dumbledore’s “Order of the Phoenix”, but Harry supposed that it made some of the strange things around his summer make a bit more sense: it certainly helped to explain why Ron and Hermione had been behaving so oddly, if nothing else.

Dumbledore himself, meanwhile, had been nearly impossible to reach. Harry supposed that this, too, made sense – after all, Dumbledore had much to prepare for with Voldemort’s return – but it sat uncomfortably with him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had done something wrong to cause this distance.

The complete opposite had wound up happening with Fleur: rather than holding it against him that she wound up mixed up in a Dementor attack because of him, for some reason she almost seemed to have latched on to Harry in the weeks following, to the point that he wound up talking to her nearly as often as he did to Ron or Hermione.

With how tense Hogwarts had become, he was even more grateful than he’d already been to count someone like her among his friends. An unpleasant woman named “Umbridge” – a representative from the Ministry of Magic, apparently – had appeared as a new staff member, and from what Harry could tell the woman _loathed_ him for some reason.

This hadn’t helped the growing frequency of the frightening, unsettling dreams that Harry had begun to have: he knew that he needed to track down Dumbledore to tell the Headmaster about this at some point, but despite how much every part of him screamed to take action and make people understand the danger that they were in, Harry had forced himself to keep his head down and to not make any waves.

Though Harry was incredibly grateful Fleur had believed him instantaneously when he’d solemnly revealed what had happened after he and Cedric had been whisked away after winning the Triwizard Cup, he was even more grateful that she’d helped to open _his_ eyes shortly after.

 _“I don’t understand,”_ he had said, while arguing that it just made sense to force people to accept the truth, “ _why wouldn’t people believe it?”_

 _“’Zere is something you do not know,”_ Fleur had replied, _“people are already suspicious of these sorts of claims, because Grindelwald is rumored to have resurfaced in Europe, somehow returned to his full power, as if his fall had never occurred.”_

 _“What!?”_ Harry had cried, shocked _, “that can’t be! It’s impossible! Dumbledore defeated him, there’s no way that he could be back!”_

 _“And zat,”_ Fleur smirked when she explained what she meant, _“is how ozzers will react to what you know.”_

Harry was initially flabbergasted by the idea that the Ministry of Magic would prioritize politics and public reception over the safety of Britain, but the more that he thought about it, the more sense it made; of course the Ministry would worry about political impact, it was a political institution.

Fleur’s hypothetical example (Grindelwald wasn’t _actually_ back, thank Merlin) was just the first of a series of lessons he’d quickly learned from her. While Fleur herself didn’t have much of an interest in a political career, it turned out that her father was a big figure in Magical France, and she’d definitely learned more than a thing or two about how to promote a cause, under his wings.

As much as it may have tasted bitter to him, Harry accepted that he’d actually have to be smart about how he handled the public side of Voldemort’s return; he could begrudgingly understand that he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of the Ministry at the same time, and so he kept quiet, for the most part. He didn’t even have to lie when he explained that he’d rather not think about the last day of the Triwizard Tournament.

He’d decided to start taking things more seriously in other avenues, as well. Harry had dropped Divination as a class, choosing instead to enroll in Ancient Runes. As laborious as the assignments were (to say nothing of the awkwardness of being the only fifth year in a third-year class), Harry couldn’t deny that the odds of learning something which might be useful to him were much improved.

Hermione, of course, had been thrilled by this decision. Ron, less so. Harry’s friendship with his female best friend had quickly healed from the summer, but Ron seemed somewhat prickly about something even now, sometimes muttering things like “ _that’s not like you, mate”_ whenever Harry discussed his own intent to become a more competent wizard.

Fleur’s reaction to his change in class schedule ( _“good, zat is much more suited to a man of your calibre”)_ had caused him to feel that warm, fuzzy feeling that Harry _still_ couldn’t puzzle out what it was. Neither could he figure out why it was that she still remained interested in what he was learning, even offering to help tutor him in subjects which must have been absolutely elementary for her.

Still, even though he couldn’t understand it, Harry knew better than to dare questioning his newest friend as to why she even wanted to be part of his life.

* * *

Fleur had been a busy woman.

As soon as Harry revealed the awful truth to her, Fleur began to undertake a variety of preparations to aid his cause in the coming war, for she knew that this could be the only possible outcome of the Dark Lord’s return.

She had accepted the job from Gringotts, but in truth treated it more as a cover for her presence in Magical Britain more than anything she actually devoted genuine effort towards. When she had returned to France, she immediately informed her father of what she’d learned, and he’d been forced to nod with grim acceptance when she insisted that she’d be fighting in the battles to come.

 _I am many things,_ Fleur knew, _but not someone who is content with taking half measures._

Next, she’d joined Dumbledore’s secret society, understanding the value of adding her capabilities to the resources that this group of partisans could draw on. She had been disappointed, though not necessarily _surprised_ , to learn that this group (whose members included many of Harry’s mentors, loved ones, and the closest he had left to surviving family) seemed so _hesitant_ to actually declare their allegiance to Harry.

It appeared that Dumbledore’s history was not taught in as great a depth at Hogwarts as it was at Beauxbatons. Though Fleur would not think to deny that Dumbledore was, indeed, a great wizard, someone who would be a crucial ally, Magical Britain seemed to have forgotten that a _great_ wizard was not necessarily a _good_ man.

Dumbledore had already been instrumental in the defeat of one Dark Lord, after all, but only after many brave witches and wizards had already given their lives to fight Grindelwald, and theirs were not the names which history remembered.

Why, it was even rumored in some particularly contentious essays that Dumbledore had been an _ally_ of Grindelwald’s at first, and that Dumbledore’s triumph might not have been the deft hand of a dedicated hero who chose the right time to strike, but a dagger in the back delivered by someone who saw an opportunity to claim power for themselves.

 _There are not many true “heroes” in this world,_ Fleur thought.

The curriculum at Hogwarts only further raised her suspicions that Dumbledore had engineered a society which would automatically look to him for leadership: Hogwarts was one of the _three_ schools which took students from all of Europe, befitting Magical Britain’s status as a convergence of power ever since the days of Merlin, and yet many of its teachers seemed outright _unqualified._

For every McGonagall or Flitwick among the Hogwarts professors (whose reputations were beyond reproach), there appeared to be a much greater number of frauds ( _Gilderoy Lockhart, truly?),_ amateurs like Trelawney, or even possible enemies, such as Severus Snape.

While Fleur did not wish to steal the last moments of Harry’s youth from him, she understood now that the boy she knew was already more accomplished, more proficient in magic than many adult wizards, and yet he was being allowed to stagnate in the halls of Hogwarts itself, wasting his time in classes where he learned nothing useful.

Fleur also wasn’t the sort of person who could sit idle while an opportunity passed her by.

 _If Dumbledore does not wish to prepare his protégé for what is to come,_ Fleur had decided, _then I will have to do what I can._

* * *

It had been another _day_ , where “Professor” Umbridge had failed to teach anything actually relevant to defending against Dark Arts, instead using the class to rant about all the various kinds of people that she hated. Harry wondered if his teeth might actually explode from how tightly he had to grit them to stop himself from speaking out.

The sound of chimes and flashing of a mirror was the first thing that he’d felt good about that whole day, as Harry hurriedly retrieved the enchanted mirror that Fleur had given him (inspired by the equivalent that Sirius had provided) and tapped on its surface to answer the call that she was making.

_Uhhhh…_

Harry’s mind blanked when she came into focus, the mirror revealing _far_ too much skin of Fleur’s, it almost looked as if she were topless.

“ _Bonjour_ , ‘Arry,” she greeted him with complete nonchalance, “’ow was your day?”

“Oh, uh, er,” Harry stammered before he remembered how to use words, “not the best. Had Defense today, and that’s as useless as ever.”

“Ah, unfortunate,” Fleur replied airily, “I admit, I was not certain it was a good idea when you first mentioned it, but I am almost beginning to think that ‘Ermione’s suggestion might be the best approach.”

“Right, uh,” Harry turned his gaze away from the mirror, feeling heat rise on his neck, “I’ll think about it, yeah.”

“Is something the matter, ‘Arry?”

He tried his best to seem nonchalant as he glanced back at the mirror, but the expanse of pale skin which met his eyes caused him to immediately look away once more.

“Nope!” he squeaked, speaking so quickly his words became indistinct, “I’mfine!”

“Did you have anozzer of your dreams?” Fleur asked, sounding concerned.

“Uhhh nope, that’s not it,” Harry swore his ears were about to combust.

“Zen why are you looking away?”

“Er, ah, well,” Harry squawked, “you, uh, you don’t seem to be fully dressed…”

Fleur’s musical laughter sang from the mirror, and Harry was thankful once again that he’d learned to put a rudimentary privacy charm up around his dorm-room bed.

“I know zat you English are awfully conservative,” Fleur teased, “but surely you cannot tell me that you wear clothes to _bathe?”_

“…erm?”

“Do not be so shy, _mon chéri,_ there is no reason to worry! Ze bubbles cover me quite thoroughly, you know.”

“Ze bubbles?” Harry unintentionally mimicked her accent, causing her to laugh once more.

“See?” and as Harry’s gaze returned to the mirror, he did just that. When Fleur rotated her own mirror to pan over herself (reclining in a luxurious-looking bathtub), it was true that the thick layer of bubbles floating on the surface of her bath obscured most of her body from view, although one of her long legs stuck out from the water, completely exposed. 

Rationally, he knew that she was not actually showing any more skin than she would in a skirt, but something about the scenario caused his blush to turn into a veritable _fire_ dancing over his own flesh.

“You seem too tense, ‘Arry,” Fleur giggled, “perhaps you should have a nice, relaxing bath of your own. Why not ask Ron or ‘Ermione to use the prefect’s bath, like you told me of how you solved the riddle of ze egg?”

“Right, yeah,” Harry muttered, “yeah, that, uh-huh.”

“Well, I always enjoy these talks,” Fleur continued, “but I am afraid I will become a prune if I linger much longer, and I do not wish to offend your delicate sensibilities, so I will say goodnight before I get out of my bath.”

“G’nite!” he yelped his response.

“I do look forward to seeing you this weekend,” Fleur announced, before the mirror flashed and left Harry starring at his own ridiculous expression instead.

_Merlin…_

Harry just lay in his bed, stunned, until he finally managed to return to a state resembling “lucid”.

He knew that Fleur didn’t actually _mean_ anything with these sorts of moments when she delighted in teasing him, but this knowledge did not make the aforementioned teasing any less effective on Harry. Fleur was a gorgeous woman, she knew that she was, and furthermore seemed to get a kick out of being recognized as such, but even this didn’t help Harry to figure out how he should actually react to these provocations.

Harry just wished that there was someone he could talk to about this. He’d just barely managed to _finally_ get in touch with Dumbledore to explain the visions that he’d been having, and that was hard enough when it had to do with Voldemort, Harry couldn’t imagine going to the Headmaster to ask “so, um, how do I talk to women?”

_Wait a minute…_

Though he’d barely made use of it, Fleur’s was not the only enchanted mirror that Harry had access to. Flushing with another wave of embarrassment, Harry retrieved the equivalent object that Sirius had gifted him, performing the swishing motions of his wand and intoning “Sirius Black” to activate it.

After a few torturously long moments, the mirror flashed, and his godfather’s face appeared on it.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise, pup,” Sirius grinned, “and here I was just laying around thinking about how you don’t have time for your dear old godfather…”

“Uh, yeah, evening, Sirius,” Harry grumbled, “sorry, I know I should call more.”

“Ah, don’t look so glum, I’m just teasing you,” Sirius’s grin grew even broader, “besides, it takes time to learn how to _brood_ properly, you can’t pull it off yet.”

“I’ve got plenty of practice, though,” Harry complained.

“Hah, that you do!” Sirius chuckled, “so, what’s on your mind, pup? What can old Sirius help with?”

“Well, uh, that’s the thing,” Harry answered, feeling his blush return, “I’m, um, I’m not sure about it…”

“About?”

“About, er, girls.”

If Harry thought that Sirius was “grinning” before this, the expression on his godfather’s face was now positively maniacal.

“Merlin, _yes_!” Sirius cried, “look, pup, y’know, I’m not really great at this whole god-parent thing. To tell the truth, James and I were drunk when he decided he’d make me your godfather, but I know that I’m absolutely shite at anything even resembling parenting.”

A solemn look briefly passed over Sirius’s face, before his wide grin returned.

“Talking about pretty birds, though? Now you’re speaking my language!”

“Well, um, it’s not what you think,” Harry protested, “it’s not like, um, I’m planning on dating her or anything like that, but, uhh, there’s this girl…”

“Who’s the lucky dame?” Sirius seemed to lean forwards to the mirror somehow, “whoever she is, I’ll tell you that she has no chance against the old Black magic.”

“Ugh,” Harry groaned at the pun, “well, you see, I know that she doesn’t mean anything by it, but she’s been, um, teasing me, by flirting with me.”

“Why wouldn’t she mean anything by it?” Sirius asked, “you are quite the catch, young man.”

“That’s just it,” Harry shrugged, “she’s older than me, there’s no way that she’d be interested in a fifth-year like myself. I guess I just want to know how to get her back, so I’m not so helpless.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” there wasn’t a hint of sympathy in Sirius’s tone, “and how, exactly, does this horrible old harpy tease you?”

“Er,” Harry began, as images of his last conversation flashed through his mind, “well, she isn’t exactly _shy_ around me, if you catch my drift.”

“Hmm,” Sirius appeared to ponder this, “older woman, not exactly shy around you, you say? Perhaps an athletic sort of woman, eh?”

“You could say that, I guess,” Harry mumbled.

“Well, in that case,” Sirius spoke with false gravity, “I rather suspect that your bashfulness is half the fun for her. Why don’t you try being bold, instead?”

“Bold?”

“Turn the tables on her,” Sirius grinned wolfishly, all too fitting for him, “next time she tries winding you up after a game, why don’t you try complimenting her?”

 _After a game?_ Harry puzzled, _does Sirius think I’m talking about one of the Chasers?_

“Right, um,” Harry answered, “I can try that, I guess. Thanks.”

“Not a problem!” Sirius’s grin fell a bit, “and, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“You can call on me whenever you want, you know?” Sirius looked oddly _serious_ at this moment, as much as Harry wanted to avoid opening the door to that old joke, “any time you need me, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Sirius,” Harry promised, “I will.”

* * *

The months had passed quickly, and from what Fleur could tell, Harry had mostly fallen into a holding pattern as the holidays approached, stuck between trying to keep his knowledge secret while simultaneously preparing his allies for the return of the Dark Lord.

She felt strangely proud of the fact that he’d taken up teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in all but name, and had happily assisted both Harry and Hermione when they’d come to her for advice on how to cast some of the more complicated defensive charms.

The revelation that Harry’s nightmares were due to some sort of connection to his greatest foe had shaken her, but as Fleur did, she quickly recovered from this shock and instead set herself to planning on how to exploit this opportunity. She’d been happy to hear that Harry had begun training in Occlumency, but her optimism had disappeared when she found out that it was _Snape_ who was his instructor.

This, like many things in Harry’s life, would not do.

Fleur rented out a room in Hogsmeade, making it easier for Harry to visit her on weekends, and in truth she had begun to mostly go through the motions herself during the weekdays leading up to these reunions. Her job at Gringotts was a way to pass the time, nothing more.

One of her coworkers – Bill Weasley, as it turned out – was at least helpful at keeping the weekdays from becoming too routine, and Fleur was also grateful that this brother of Ron’s had been equally as courteous in accepting her rejection as he had been when he’d tried to make a romantic advance towards her.

 _There is a war coming,_ she had thought, _it is not the time to dally with relationships._

Now, with Harry seated in front of her in her room at a Hogsmeade inn, Fleur prepared for another lesson, one which she was uniquely well-suited for.

“To resist an intrusion into your mind,” she explained, “is a skill which relies on how you respond to the attack.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, “it’s like when Moo-, er, Barty Crouch, that is, put me under the Imperius, yeah? I just need to be strong-willed enough to throw it off?”

_The strength of your will is not in question, I think._

“Yes, but also no,” Fleur tittered when Harry’s face immediately fell into an expression of pure consternation, “there are different avenues which these sorts of attacks might seek to exploit. Just as you would not attempt to put out a fire using grease, sometimes attempting to match your willpower against an incursion would leave you vulnerable, instead.”

“How’s that?”

“It is not an exact science,” Fleur continued, “but there is a general principle that is said to apply: meet attacks on your self with willpower, incursions into your thoughts with your feelings, and assaults on your feelings with reason.”

“…wow,” Harry frowned, “how do you even tell the difference?”

“I will show you,” Fleur told him, “you are aware of the abilities of Veela, _oui?_ ”

“Only the basics,” Harry answered, “you, uh, you’ve told me about the transformation part, and I know that there’s some kind of… er, _charm_?”

“Just so,” she smiled, “some call it ze ‘allure’, and your task today is to see ‘ow much you can withstand.”

“Um,” Harry scratched at the back of his head, a nervous tic of his she’d picked up on, “isn’t that a bit risky?”

“Oh?”

“Well, I mean,” Harry seemed to try to look anywhere in her room except at her, “what if I can’t, um, resist it?”

“Oh, _mon bijou_ ,” Fleur tittered, “even if you become overwhelmed by desire, I trust you to behave yourself.”

Though her friend grumbled (and blushed, she noted), Fleur wasn’t even teasing him: while it was vanishingly rare for her to extend this level of trust towards any man who she wasn’t related to, she truly believed that Harry would not be capable of attacking her in this manner, even if he _were_ to fall under the influence of her allure.

“Zis is a useful opportunity,” she tried to remain serious, “the allure, it applies itself along multiple avenues of the mind. It affects your thoughts, your feelings, and even ze sensations of your body.”

“Right, so how do I resist it?”

“That is for you to discover,” Fleur answered, as she opened the floodgates of her heritage, calling on this oft-maligned ability of her kin.

Harry’s jaw went slack, and she saw his eyes darken immediately, but while his arms twitched, he didn’t move from where he sat.

“How is that, ‘Arry?” she teased.

“Mmmh,” he groaned a sound, “that’s, ugh, a lot, yeah.”

“You can feel it, then?” Fleur leaned forward, getting closer to his personal space, “you can feel the _fire_ within you?”

His eyes snapped to hers, and Fleur actually had to suppress a gasp of her own. Harry’s eyes were striking even during the most ordinary circumstances, a glittering emerald-like green, but at this moment? They seemed to sparkle like literal gemstones.

“I feel it,” he grunted, “yup.”

“And yet,” she continued, drawing deeper on her ability, making the effect grow in intensity, “it does not _control_ you, does it?”

“I…” Harry swallowed thickly, “I know, urgh, I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Can’t let you win,” he challenged, and Fleur felt her heartrate spike for some reason.

While Fleur understood that her own ability to inspire lust was not as potent as a full-blooded Veela’s, the simple fact was that it was quite rare for any man (those that had an interest in women, at least) to be able to resist even her “charms”. For Harry to meet her targeted efforts with outright _defiance_? It was so rare as to be practically unheard-of.

 _I had thought that true heroes were just a story, my friend,_ Fleur thought, _and yet, here you are._

“A pity,” Fleur moved closer, leaning out to stroke her fingertips along Harry’s shoulder, “I was almost curious to see what you might try if you surrendered yourself to me…”

She let the allure drop, and Harry jolted as if he’d been doused in ice water, just as soon as he had actually started to stand.

“Merlin,” he muttered, “I see what you mean, by the end there, it was getting hard to tell what was real or not.”

“Oh?” Fleur smirked, “is zat so? Tell me, what did you imagine?”

He met her gaze, and Fleur saw his uncertainty and embarrassment vanish suddenly, replaced by a roguish confidence.

“Sorry, Fleur,” Harry chuckled, “I’m supposed to be the golden boy and all that, yeah? I’m not exactly the sort to ravish a princess in her tower, but if you need me to save you from a dragon, well, then I might be of some help.”

“Oh, you do not think I could handle ze dragon myself?” Fleur giggled.

“I don’t know,” Harry leaned back, in an easy, relaxed stance, “I do seem to recall that I beat your score on the first task, didn’t I?”

“A fluke, surely,” Fleur joked in return.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Harry continued to tease her, “you’re definitely pretty enough to ensnare any dumb brute that catches your fancy.”

“Oh, but of course,” Fleur answered, “I will find some enormous, hairy man to protect me.”

“Hmm,” Harry seemed to think for a moment, “I didn’t think he’d be your type, but I’d be happy to set you up with Hagrid, in that case.”

The two laughed together as the absurdity of this idea overwhelmed them.

All the while, Fleur felt an unfamiliar, warm feeling through her chest.

* * *

Harry felt the cold before anything else.

Next, he felt _fury_. His nerves sparked as if he’d stuck his hands in a Muggle electrical socket, as the world whirled around him, an unclear swirl of darkness and faint images. The scene resolved itself, and Harry’s heart lurched in his chest.

Sirius knelt before him, restrained on either arm by a set of heavy iron chains, and his godfather looked up at him with a look of dread on his face.

“ _Crucio_ ,” the cruel voice seemed to spill from his own lips, and Sirius screamed in agony.

 _No,_ Harry thought, _no, they can’t have got you, no!_

“Look, Black,” the voice spoke once more, “look at what has resulted from your little rebellion. It was clever, I admit, to think to unearth this weapon against me, but I already foresaw its use.”

Harry tried to look around, to determine where this was happening, but all he caught sight of were shadowy figures in robes. _Death Eaters,_ he thought.

“Now, I am not without mercy,” the voice – _Voldemort’s_ – lied, “so I make you an offer: if you tell me where it is, I will end this pointless exercise this moment, and you will be welcomed into our fold with open arms.”

“I’d never-“ Sirius began, but was interrupted by another cry of _“Crucio!”_

“You will,” Voldemort promised, “the only difference is whether you decide to tell me as a man, or whether I have to pry the secret from whatever is left of your mind.”

Harry swore he could feel his heart hammering at the same time as he felt the cool, indifferent disregard for Sirius’s life present in Voldemort’s thoughts. Sirius looked up, a pleading expression on his face, his lips quivering in fear.

 _Wait_. _Sirius… shaved?_

Sirius had recently grown a moustache, of all things, a long, waxed, and curling embellishment that he insisted made him look “dashing”. Harry believed it made him look like a pirate, but had made the mistake of sharing this opinion, leading to a week of Sirius calling him “matey” and attempting a variety of nautical puns.

The terrified face looking up at him was clean-shaven.

 _If they attack your emotions, use your reason,_ Fleur’s voice spoke in Harry’s mind.

He tried to take account of the surroundings once again, but the location remained hazy, unclear. The masked figures of the surrounding Death Eaters remained unmoving, standing almost statue-like in their stillness. Above Sirius, a large sign reading “Department of Mysteries” hung from the ceiling, so obvious that it could not be ignored.

Harry awoke with a jolt, running to his room as fast as his legs could carry him. Panic seizing his limbs, he almost fumbled the enchanted mirror that he pulled from under his bed, before he rushed through the incantation, pleading “Sirius Black” to the object.

When his godfather’s – moustached, and very much _not_ being tortured – face appeared in the mirror, Harry deflated, his fear seeming to take his strength along with it as it spilled from his body.

“Pup?” Sirius asked, “…are you drunk?”

“No!” Harry’s mind whirled back into motion as he realized what this meant, “it’s Voldemort! I just saw…”

“Another nightmare?” Sirius’s face shifted from ‘concern’ to ‘preparedness’, “where is he?”

“That’s the thing,” Harry explained, “I think… he tried to set an ambush. I saw a vision of _you_ , being tortured, at the department of mysteries.”

“Fuck,” Sirius cursed, “go tell Dumbledore, right this instant. We can use this.”

Harry said goodbye quickly, then rushed to do so.

* * *

“I still do not like that you have to return there,” Fleur admitted.

“Yeah, me neither,” Harry shrugged, “but it’s home, yeah?”

While Harry had been suspiciously noncommittal about explaining _why_ he had to reside at the Dursley’s house, Fleur had her own, private suspicions. She still didn’t trust that Dumbledore fully had Harry’s best interests in mind, but from what she’d gleaned from Harry ( _he still needs to work on not being so transparent when he lies,_ she thought), she could not argue against the strength of a blood ward.

The year had ended in triumph, in many ways. When the Dark Lord had attempted to use his unforeseen connection to Harry to set a trap, her friend had been clever enough to have seen through the ruse, and what could have been an ambush was instead turned into a thorough rout of the Dark Lord’s forces.

Many of his followers had been arrested, some had been disposed of more permanently, and all with only a few injuries to the Aurors which had swarmed the Department of Ministries. If Fleur had any regrets, it was that she hadn’t had the opportunity to be there herself; she swore that if she had been, then Bellatrix Lestrange would _not_ have had the chance to escape the grasps of Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks.

Fleur, being a rational woman, also understood that while this particular battle was won, the war was far from over. From how Harry had explained the Dark Lord’s speech at the cemetery where he’d been resurrected, Fleur suspected that Harry’s nemesis was still engaged in a process of testing his followers for loyalty, which in turn led her to believe that those captured at the Ministry were likely no more than chaff, rather than losses that their foe would regret.

Still, even if his machinations likely continued, it was certain that this would have been a setback for the Dark Lord. It was for this reason (and the potency of blood magic) that Fleur begrudgingly accepted the necessity of Harry staying with his awful relatives, but a “home” could mean many things, could it not?

After all, she still thought of the Delacour estate as home, despite not having set foot in France since Yule.

“Well, I must give you zis,” Fleur announced, pressing a small object into Harry’s hands, “and I trust that you will make wise use of it, _oui_?”

“Thanks, Fleur,” he responded, “I’ll, uh… what is this?”

“A two-way portkey, _chou_ ,” she explained, “I have purchased a flat in London, and I would rather prefer that you do not expose yourself to any unnecessary risks when you visit.”

The question of _if_ he would choose to visit her, of course, was unnecessary.

“I will see you soon,” Fleur decided, “safe travels, ‘Arry.”

“Yeah, uh, sounds great,” Harry answered, and he awkwardly returned the quick embrace which Fleur wrapped around him.

“Wait, Fleur?” he asked.

“ _Oui?_ ”

“When _should_ I come by?”

“Whenever you want, you silly man,” she laughed, before she left him so that he could return to his “home” for a while.

 _You still have much to learn,_ Fleur thought, _which means that I have much to teach._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving things along!
> 
> I was really looking forward to writing this chapter for a couple of reasons:  
> \- I was STOKED to write Sirius, a character I haven't actually written yet  
> \- I've always been attached to the "Dumbledore was actively scheming with how he served as Harry's mentor" theory, and having Fleur interjected in Harry's life (someone who's more mature and more devious than his other close peers were in canon) is a fun opportunity to explore this angle in the background
> 
> The next chapter is going to be similarly fast-paced in how much time it covers, because this is at its heart a **Harry and Fleur** story - other characters and events outside of their purview won't receive much emphasis at all. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I was really encouraged by the feedback from chapter one, which in turn sped up the writing of chapter two!


	3. weather changes moods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's sixth year leads to a sudden change of the status quo, and the Second Wizarding War begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this chapter gets darker than the last, it contains moderate magical violence, character deaths, and grief. Anyone sensitive to these subjects may wish to skip the section which begins with the line "the day had started..."

For the most part, the actual class portions of Harry’s sixth year had been approaching a state very near “painless”: while Slughorn was an ingratiating and utterly mercenary sort, Potions with him was much more manageable than it had ever been with Snape (to say nothing of the mysterious Half-Blood Prince whose notes were so helpful), while Defense with the aforementioned head of Slytherin managed to be… tolerable.

It turned out that in his sixth year, it had been Harry’s extra-curriculars which were the most challenging. Dumbledore had, for some reason, decided that now was the time to take Harry under his wing, insisting upon private lessons several times a week, on top of the (begrudging on both sides) training in Occlumency that Harry continued with Snape.

Harry barely had the time to be the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch squad when all was said and done, let alone to keep a handle on the various dynamics involved in how his entire house had apparently discovered the concept of “dating” all at the same time. Ron was still one of Harry’s best friends, certainly, but Harry had to admit that he was glad that the Weasley’s newfound relationship with Lavender Brown kept Ron busy without needing to rely on him all the time.

Similarly, Hermione’s mysterious conversations with Viktor Krum seemed to provide her an outlet for various rants and intellectual theories which didn’t require Harry’s input; he was glad that both his friends seemed to have found people whose company they enjoyed, but Harry himself simply couldn’t imagine making the _time_ to date anyone.

If he somehow managed to find free time in his schedule, he usually spent it with Fleur, anyways.

She had undeniably become as important to Harry as his other two best friends were, and the French witch had continued to provide a reliable source of comfort for him: when he struggled with some obscure element of runes, she’d happily walk him through the steps to find the correct symbol (no doubt a benefit of her continued employment at Gringotts); when Harry wanted to vent about the struggle of balancing all these different expectations on him, she’d listen and joke around with him until he felt at ease; and when he needed help in trying to manipulate Slughorn into giving him the answers that he (and Dumbledore) so urgently required, she was absolutely invaluable.

Harry truly couldn’t imagine how he’d managed without her before, and a large part of him wanted to bring her even closer to him, to make her a confidant of the secrets that Dumbledore had revealed to him. The rest of him knew that to do so would only endanger Fleur, and while Harry trusted that she was a competent and capable witch, he also felt that some battles were his alone to fight.

The revelation of the existence of Horcruxes – cursed objects containing part of a Dark wizard’s soul – was knowledge that Harry didn’t yet wish to burden others with. He could still barely accept that, before even meeting Riddle in combat (itself a cause for nightmares), Harry would first have to hunt down and destroy whatever the maniac had stashed part of his _soul_ in.

 _That’s the best case, really,_ he thought bitterly, _if Dumbledore is right, there might be more than one of the horrid things._

Harry was just lucky that the latest battle in that particular war was one where he could call on his ally for aid: Slughorn’s egotistically-titled “Slug Club” was hosting a Christmas party, and if anyone on earth knew how to handle themselves at a social event, it was Fleur Delacour.

It was strange that he felt so nervous about inviting her to accompany him. Harry definitely enjoyed the back-and-forth flirting that he and Fleur always wound up engaging in, but having seen other actual couples together (almost too literally, in the case of Ron and Lavender), he was even more certain that whatever had first inspired Fleur to start teasing him, it definitely wasn’t any sort of romantic interest.

Besides, even if he was sure that those sorts of pet names would sound better in French than something like “Won-Won” ( _gag,_ he thought), he couldn’t imagine someone as graceful and elegant as Fleur would ever dream of attaching herself to the absolute _shambles_ that was Harry Potter’s life, any more than she already had.

With this reminder that Fleur was simply a friend fresh in his mind, Harry set off to meet her for a coffee in Hogsmeade, where he’d invite her to this Slug Club party.

* * *

Fleur was confused, though not concerned, at Harry’s obvious struggles with _something_.

When they’d met for their usual coffee, she could immediately tell that he was out-of-sorts, fidgeting and stammering more than he typically did. Her usual light-hearted teasing only seemed to worsen his condition, and Fleur was nearly tempted to let up on it for now, though of course she wouldn’t make it that easy for him.

In truth, it was one of the parts of their friendship which she treasured most. Harry was an awful flirt (quite literally – he was _awful_ at flirting), and Fleur suspected that the hand of Sirius Black was behind Harry’s attempts to pay her flowery, overwrought compliments, but she enjoyed hearing them largely because they were so silly.

Fleur had no shame in admitting her own weaknesses, and she also knew that her own provocations weren’t exactly subtle or urbane. Before befriending Harry, Fleur had never really had the opportunity to actually flirt with someone, and she figured that if nothing else, it was a valuable learning experience not only for Harry, but also for herself.

After all, Fleur had _never_ struggled to attract people. Ever since early in her teenage years, when she had stopped being seen as a “girl” and became a “young woman” in the eyes of the world, boys her age (and even men uncomfortably older) had made no secret of how beautiful they found her. She’d had no reason to pursue anyone when – if she had so desired – she could have simply made her pick from the veritable hordes of suitors constantly surrounding her.

Of course, few had ever impressed her enough to even earn a first date with her, and none had ever reached a second date. This only reinforced Fleur’s belief that when she did wish to enter a relationship, it would have to be with someone who could challenge her, and in such a case, she’d need to have more than a school-girl’s grasp of flirtation. 

Even though, as a part-Veela, she could almost certainly _take_ whoever she wanted (as those instincts would have her do), Fleur looked to her parents’ relationship as a goal for her future: while her father was not the most handsome man in the world, he was driven and willful in a way that very few were, and whenever he’d whisper something into her mother’s ear which set her to blushing, Fleur knew it was because _papa_ was in possession of more charm than even Apolline Delacour could bring to bear.

Putting aside these thoughts of what the man she would one day marry might be like, Fleur’s mind turned to her friend. She thought that their little games would also be of benefit to Harry: certainly, her friend could use a healthy dose of confidence, but even beyond that, Fleur was shocked that some enterprising young witch hadn’t yet sunk her talons into him.

At first, she’d suspected that Hermione was merely biding her time, but Fleur had come to understand that the relationship between Harry and his best friend was rooted in a love which more closely resembled the kind between siblings than anything else. Fleur truly liked Hermione, which made it odd that she couldn’t explain why she almost felt relieved when she’d reached that deduction.

Though she’d never explicitly spelled it out to Harry, so too did Fleur fear that his enemies might attempt subtler avenues of attack. She’d nearly flown into a rage when she’d sniffed out a love potion that someone had tried to disguise in a box of chocolates addressed to him, only calming down somewhat when Harry eventually figured out that the attempt had been made not by a daughter of Death Eaters, but merely by a love-struck admirer.

Truly, Fleur believed that they both benefitted from their ongoing game of pretending to seduce one other, which only made it all the more amusing to watch her friend struggle. Fleur bided her time, as she calmly sipped her coffee while Harry was obviously attempting to work up his courage.

“Er, so, I was thinking,” Harry finally spoke.

“Were you?” Fleur teased, “that is a first, isn’t it?”

“I, um, well,” Harry stammered, “there’s, uh, a party.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he took a breath, and then words spilled from his mouth fast enough to be nearly incomprehensible; “there’s a party, the slug party, and I need someone to, er, that night. Um, want to… want to go to the party with date? Me?”

Fleur couldn’t help but break out in laughter at just how badly he’d mangled this sentence.

“ _Oui¸_ Harry,” she replied, thoroughly enjoying the look of concern that had begun to spread over his face until she answered, “I would love to be your date for this Slug Club party.”

 _I can only imagine how hard he’d struggle if he **actually** tried to ask me out, _she thought, finding that image even more appealing.

* * *

Harry paced around the entrance to Hogwarts, trying to figure out how to calm his rapidly fraying nerves. He figured that he was dressed fairly appropriately (Fleur had all but picked out his outfit for him), and he was thankful that Remus had interjected to teach him how to tie his bow tie (after Sirius had spent nearly half an hour growing increasingly frantic on the other side of Harry’s enchanted mirror), but apparently “dressing the part” and feeling up to it were very different things.

When Fleur arrived, Harry forgot all about his nerves, his thoughts overwritten with a repeated refrain of “ _wow_ ”.

He knew that she was gorgeous, of course – he wasn’t _blind_ – but, apparently, he’d been too young to have properly recognized that fact at the last party he’d been to where Fleur was in attendance. Her dress was hardly revealing, but the long slit at its side exposed absolutely incredible glimpses of her long legs, and the way it dipped at the front revealed a distracting amount of cleavage.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry blurted, the only words he could really think of.

“ _Merci_ ,” she replied, giggling, “and you look quite handsome as well, _mon trésor._ Come,” she commanded, “while it is very good to compliment a lady as an introduction, it is best to actually invite her inside.”

“Oh, erm, right,” Harry did just that, extending his arm so that Fleur could link their elbows together. “So, uh, there’s gonna be a lot of people at this party, and I’m not sure who I’ll know, so-“

“It will be fine,” Fleur interrupted his worried rambling, “I am quite capable of socializing, ‘Arry. Leave that to me, and you handle the subterfuge you’re responsible for.”

The moments in between then and when Harry and Fleur made their appearance at Slughorn’s party passed in a blur, and Harry found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything but the woman at his side. Sure enough, she was just as graceful at introductions and conversation with the various people at the party as she was with _everything_ , and Harry wondered how ridiculous he must have looked (stammering, nervous mess that he was) attached to her.

An outburst of some sort finally wrested his attention away from her, and the appearance of Draco Malfoy at this event was nearly enough to sour his mood. When Draco made a bee-line towards Snape, Harry’s intuition prickled at the back of his neck, and he made to disengage from Fleur so that he could head in that direction.

“Ah, I believe I am in need of refreshments,” Fleur announced, her arm tightening around his, “’Arry, darling, would you lead the way?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, of course,” Harry mumbled.

As Fleur instead pulled on his arm to guide him towards a table stocked with glasses of champagne, he couldn’t help but glance to the side, where Malfoy had practically been pulled into a corner by Snape, the two Slytherins talking with grim expressions on their faces.

“Do not be so obvious when you wish to eavesdrop,” Fleur whispered, “create some sort of excuse, zen approach from the side, instead of storming directly towards them.”

Still clutching his arm at the elbow, Fleur pulled them towards a two-person seat, which faced away from the corner that Malfoy and Snape were ensconced in.

“What do you hear?” Fleur leaned in to speak softly, and Harry almost forgot the reason that they were sitting here, with her so close to him.

“…I made the unbreakable vow, Draco…” he overheard Snape hiss.

“…it’s my job, he gave it to me and I’m doing it, I’ve got a plan and it’s going to work…” Malfoy’s response was similarly terse.

As Harry strained to listen to their conversation, he was surprised by Fleur leaning in even _closer_ , planting one of her hands on his chest, as if they were themselves in the middle of a particularly intimate sort of talk.

“Snape is manipulating him,” she whispered, “the boy is dangerous.”

 _I’ll say,_ Harry thought, as he caught Draco muttering something about “glory”.

When Malfoy stormed off, Harry’s first instinct was to rise to see where he went, only to be prevented from standing by Fleur’s hand on his chest.

“ _Non_ , it is too suspicious,” she told him, “and besides, _chou_ , we are not done speaking, yes?”

“Oh, uh, right,” Harry murmured, “so, er… plans for the holidays?”

Her musical laughter caused Harry’s ears to heat up, as he understood once again just how out of his depth he was in her company.

“ _Oui,”_ she answered, “I will visit my family, of course, and zen, _Monsieur Potter,_ I rather expect I will spend much of the rest in your company.”

 _That sounds really nice,_ Harry thought, as he tried to put this sentiment into words, watching Snape storm off past him and Fleur without giving the pair a second glance.

By the time they rejoined the rest of the party, Harry’s mind was practically bursting with how hard it was to figure out _everything_ about the evening: Draco had a ”plan” of some sort, which troubled him, but it was equally hard to forget that Fleur had her own plans, apparently involving himself.

 _Sure, I don’t exactly have a lot going on over the holiday break,_ Harry puzzled, _but surely she doesn’t feel bad enough about that to want to keep me busy, right?_

Just as quickly as time had passed at the start of the evening, the party came to a close in a blur, and Harry walked Fleur back to the gates of Hogwarts to bid her goodnight.

“Thanks, Fleur,” Harry finally spoke once more, “I couldn’t have done that without you.”

“It was a lovely, evening, you silly man,” she teased, and then the moment of silence that followed her words seemed to drag on forever.

Harry swore that it felt like she was waiting for something, but even with the best of his ability, he couldn’t figure out what.

“Goodnight, Fleur,” he squeezed her upper arm in a friendly, affectionate gesture, “coffee’s on me next time, as thanks?”

“Goodnight, Harry,” she sighed, though with a smirk on her face, “I will see you soon.”

* * *

When she next saw Harry, he was in a foul mood.

“What’s wrong?” Fleur asked him, any thoughts of continuing to tease him quickly put out of mind.

“It’s… Malfoy.” Harry answered, “listen, uh, can we talk? Somewhere private?”

“Of course.” Fleur quickly bustled him towards the room she rented out, and hurriedly refreshed the various privacy and security charms she’d placed throughout after they entered.

“So, hmm,” Harry’s brow furrowed in thought, “look, I trust you, you’re one of my best friends, Fleur, but what I’m about to say… it’s important, yeah?”

“Is it?” Fleur was curious, “you do not have to tell me, if it is too difficult.”

“No, I’ve got to,” Harry muttered, “it’s not fair to you otherwise. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to insist that I swear you to secrecy on this, it **can’t** get out, to anyone.”

Without hesitation, Fleur produced her wand, swearing herself to a vow to keep whatever secrets Harry wished to discuss that day.

“Thanks,” Harry seemed to deflate a bit as some of the tension left him, “I’m sorry about that, but, yeah.”

“It is nothing,” Fleur tried to assuage his concerns, “I understand the value of certainty, Harry.”

“So, Malfoy.” Harry ran his hands through his hair, “he’s up to something, it’s obvious, but I can’t bloody well figure out _what_.”

“Yes, that much is apparent,” Fleur agreed, “but what troubles you so about that boy?”

“I think he’s a Death Eater,” Harry hissed, “and I’m not just saying that because he’s an utter prat, or because his dad was one: I think he’s fucking _marked_ and everything.”

It was a serious accusation, and Fleur could understand why Harry wouldn’t want rumours to spread, but even this didn’t seem to be everything he wanted to say.

“What do you plan to do about him?” she inquired.

“Well, stop him, somehow.”

“Mhmm,” Fleur nodded, “but _how_? If your enemies are operating within Hogwarts itself… that cannot stand, yes?”

“What can I do?” Harry sighed loudly, flopping to a seat in one of her chairs, “whether or not Snape is trustworthy is another matter entirely, but either way, even Dumbledore is insistent that ‘Draco is not yet beyond reach’, whatever that means.”

Fleur frowned, pursing her lips in thought.

 _Snape may well be as loyal as a double-agent can be,_ she processed the different possibilities, _and if he has sworn a vow to defend Draco, as we overheard, then his own hands might be tied._

“You could…” Fleur hesitated, not sure if Harry was ready to hear the words she had to say. Deciding that her friend deserved to hear the hard truth from _someone_ in his life, she continued. “If you lured him here, away from Hogwarts, he would be outside the bounds where Snape or Dumbledore would be obligated to defend him.”

“And then, what, question him?” Harry shrugged, “Malfoy might be good for absolutely nothing, but the prick’s stubborn.”

“ _Non_ ,” Fleur paused, finding her own courage, “bring him here, and I will kill him.”

As she feared, Harry recoiled from her words, but then appeared to consider them in more depth after his initial reaction.

“Is… is that what we have to do?” his voice was soft, uncertain.

“I do not have to remind you,” Fleur took his hands in hers, “the depths to which Death Eaters will sink to. If it is as you say, that he is one of them now… do you think he would show you mercy, if he had the opportunity to strike you down?”

Harry pondered this idea. Fleur knew that Dumbledore and his allies tended to hold to a philosophy that _all_ people might one day be redeemed, which she could see some of the merit in, but she was not so naïve as to think that the coming war was one that would be won through pure morals alone.

 _Death Eaters do not shy away from assassinations and targeting the vulnerable,_ she understood, _if the Malfoy boy has joined their ranks? Then he has forfeited any second chances he may have been owed._

“Not yet,” Harry decided, “I’m not certain enough, and once we take that step… we can’t come back from it.”

She did not intend to try and convince Harry to become a killer due to any of her more impulsive instincts to rain fire on his enemies, but instead, to remind him that such things would become necessary eventually. _Dumbledore is a truly great figure, a shining light,_ she mused, _but the brightest lights cast the darkest shadows._

“As you say,” Fleur agreed, “just know, Harry, that I am an ally of yours. Not Dumbledore’s, not the Order of the Phoenix, _you_.”

“We’re all on the same side though, aren’t we?” his voice hitched, and it stung her heart to hear.

“That may be true, yes,” Fleur promised, “but if you diverge from Dumbledore’s path? I will follow. There is a war on the horizon, _mon sucre,_ and I have already begun to prepare to fight.”

“Thanks, Fleur,” Harry ran his thumb over the back of her hand, “I guess I’m not ready yet, myself.”

 _Non, not yet, neither am I,_ she thought, _but we will be._

* * *

The day had started with upheaval, descended into madness, and had fallen into outright chaos by its end.

Dumbledore – the name caused a sting of pain whenever Harry thought it – had made significant progress on the mission which he and Harry had undertaken: they had confirmed the madness of Tom Riddle once and for all ( _six Horcruxes, what utter lunacy_ ); had uncovered the foul secret stashed away at Hogwarts and learned what could destroy them; and finally, had taken the perilous steps necessary to recover the fourth Horcrux, Slytherin’s locket.

It had all fallen apart once Dumbledore and Harry had returned to Hogwarts and caught sight of the Dark Mark cast into the sky above the astronomy tower.

Harry knew that Dumbledore was ailing – _dying, even,_ he suspected – but had never thought that Voldemort could have learned of this, or that Malfoy’s mysterious “plan” would have led to such horrific outcomes.

_I should’ve listened to Fleur._

However he’d managed it, Malfoy had somehow opened a way to bypass Hogwarts’ defenses, and fucking Voldemort himself had appeared, with a cadre of Death Eaters and a pack of Werewolves in tow. Dumbledore had spirited Harry to safety, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak, but this had just forced Harry to helplessly watch his first mentor fall at Tom Riddle’s hands.

Voldemort had apparently satisfied his bloodthirst with that, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. Many of his minions had remained behind, wreaking havoc and murdering their way through the halls of Hogwarts while teachers, students, the Order, and Aurors all joined forces to mount a desperate defense.

In the confusion, Harry had done what he could to dispatch the foes he encountered, drawing on every spell that he’d learned under Dumbledore that year, as well as the offensive magics that Sirius and Fleur had insisted on teaching him. It had been odd, at first, when Dumbledore had been so insistent on practicing duelling with Harry, but he’d eventually learned enough to have actually defeated the legendary wizard in the final test of his skill, and Harry intended to use _everything_ in his arsenal when he caught Malfoy.

Harry pursued his foe through the halls in a mad dash until he finally caught sight of Malfoy trying to flee to the gates, apparently too incompetent, fearful, or cowardly to join his fellow Death Eaters in their assault. Harry did what he had realized he should have done long ago, and burst from the shadows as soon as Malfoy stopped running.

“Malfoy!” Harry cried, his voice raw with emotion.

“Potter!” his enemy jumped in shock, “I didn-“

Harry didn’t intend to let him continue whatever he had to say, interrupting Malfoy with a silent _diffindo_ charm, which the Death Eater barely managed to raise a shield charm in time to block. Harry disdainfully broke his shield (using a spell of Sirius’s) and continued his offense. Harry’s second cast of the severing charm split Malfoy’s wand, and from the way that Malfoy dropped to the ground screaming, thrashing his legs, and clutching his hand, the spell had cut deeply.

 _But not deeply enough. “For enemies...”_ Harry thought, recalling a spell which he’d learned from the words of his unknown fourth mentor of the year.

“ _Sectumsempra!_ ” Harry bellowed, slashing his wand at the Death Eater’s back. Blood spurted from the wound that appeared on Malfoy’s spine, and his legs went still, though his arms still scrabbled weakly in the dirt.

Scowling, Harry turned from his fallen enemy, and hurried back into the castle, hoping that he wasn’t too late to bring down any other Death Eaters who lingered.

* * *

The war had begun more suddenly than Fleur expected, and with grievous losses on the night of its first battle.

As soon as the alarm had been raised, Fleur had joined the battle, but she was too late to have made a meaningful impact. The Dark Lord had already slain Dumbledore by the time she arrived, and his crazed followers – a motely assemblage of Death Eaters, Werewolves, and even a _Vampire_ – were routing through Hogwarts’ defenders.

Dumbledore had not been the only ally of the Light to fall that night.

Minerva McGonagall would live, but was badly injured, and Filius Flitwick was no more. William Weasley – the man who had been a pleasant coworker of hers – had fallen while battling several Werewolves, and Ron’s heart had broken even further when he’d discovered his girlfriend’s body. The Death Eaters had not gone without their own losses, but the list of those injured, broken, or dead was far too long in comparison.

 _One name is too many,_ Fleur swore, **_all_** _of you shall be avenged._

She had attended the solemn vigil held for Dumbledore, and then as soon as it concluded, returned to Hogsmeade, packing up every charmed item and rune-covered device that she’d collected over the past two years, as Fleur Delacour prepared for war.

“Fleur,” Harry spoke, as he entered the room, his voice low and strained.

“Harry,” she answered, “when do we leave?”

“That’s…” he stopped for a moment, then seemed to find his words, nodding to himself, “that’s the thing. You aren’t coming.”

“Yes,” Fleur corrected him, “I am.”

“Fleur, it’s… I can’t risk losing you,” Harry muttered, and his façade of strength broke, tears streaming from his eyes, “ _so many_ people just died, and it’s all because I wasn’t strong enough, I didn’t do what I needed to. It’s my fault.”

“ _Non_ ,” she spoke, her voice iron, “you cannot blame yourself for the actions that your enemies take, Harry. We are at war, and we have lost the first battle, but,” she hefted the bag of enchanted objects at her side, feeling its reassuring weight, “we will _not_ lose the next.”

“I just… I _can’t_ ,” Harry sobbed, “this is between me and Voldemort. I’ll fight him, and I’ll beat him, but… nobody else has to die for me. This is my battle.”

“ _Oui,_ it is your battle,” she nodded sharply, “and also the battle of all the others that would rather die than live under his thumb. We are _with you_ , Harry, it is not yours alone.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he argued.

“If I do not go with you today,” Fleur told him, “then I would find a battle to fight regardless. Would you rather that I go to war by myself? Alone?”

“W-what?” Harry choked, “look, I don’t understand why, but this is my _destiny,_ alright? I have to do this! You don’t!”

“I **do** ,” she would hear no more of this, “tell me this: it is hard, _oui_ , to be thrust into something by the circumstances of your birth. To be hated and loved not for who you are, but for _what_ you are. To know that there are those out there who would cut you into pieces who you have never so much as met, to have fought for your right to live for your whole life.”

“It…" he slumped into himself a bit, "yeah.”

“I am not speaking of you, Harry,” Fleur clapped her hand onto his shoulder, and he almost seemed to find his spine somewhere in his surprise, “I _know_. I will not live in a world where my mother would be taken for _parts_ , where my sister would be sold to a Death Eater as a toy. I am fighting this war, and there is nowhere that I would rather do so than standing at your side.”

A long moment passed silently between the two of them, before Harry nodded, his teary eyes hardening with resolve.

“Come,” Fleur spoke, letting her voice grow a fraction softer, “we have much to prepare. We must plan our first counter-attack.”

“Let’s go.” Harry turned without speaking any further.

The pair left Hogsmeade, and went to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Night falls.
> 
> As with previous chapters, I wanted to blaze through as much of the canon day-to-day of Harry's sixth year as I could, focusing instead on key moments between Fleur and himself (or moments of character development different from canon). 
> 
> Because some of these divergences won't be explicitly spelled out in text, some notes on key changes:  
> * Because Voldemort didn't duel Dumbledore at the Ministry in this AU, he's less fearful of Dumbledore's battle prowess and was willing to appear at Hogwarts in person  
> * As the Death Eaters took _worse_ losses at the Ministry compared to canon, Voldemort is also a bit more desperate in this setting - he's made more efforts to recruit werewolves and other "dark beings" than canon, and correspondingly, Fenrir Greyback has more pull to carry out massacres than he would have  
> * The more violent attack compared to the Astronomy Tower Battle meant that there were more and worse casualties, which in turn will change the directions of some characters  
> * Since Harry is a bit more confident and less isolated from support networks than canon, Dumbledore felt compelled to take an even more direct approach in preparing Harry to be the "chosen one" to fight Voldemort, which wound up being a different road that reached the same destination for one key factor (mentioned between the lines when Harry recalls some training)  
> * A minor change all things considered, but because Harry wasn't quite as involved in Hermione and Ron's social lives in this universe, the Hermione/Ron relationship wound up fizzling out before it got anywhere. Harry and Ginny are also less close than canon, and Luna is a bit more on the fringes in this setting
> 
> The next chapter will cover the Second Wizarding War in a similar "key events" method, and is going to get **dark** compared to my usual fics - but the night is always darkest before the dawn, yeah?
> 
> Comments are as welcome as ever! I've appreciated the chance to get some insight into the past two chapters, and this one is no exception!


	4. and he likes to shoot his gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Wizarding War begins. Its early stages are marked by triumphs and tragedies for Harry and his allies, before leading up to a brush with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: magical violence that's a bit more graphic than the canon events were. Contains medium-explicit descriptions of injuries, death, and torture.

Another one of the many tragedies in the last couple days was the discovery that Dumbledore’s sacrifice had wound up being in vain.

Harry still carried the fake locket in the back pocket of his pants, as if the weight could help remind him of this failure. Dumbledore was not the only one to have fallen, either; Filius Flitwick had been killed by Death Eaters, the DA had lost Hannah Abbot and Michael Corner, and Ron had suffered the deaths of both his brother Bill and girlfriend Lavender.

The youngest Weasley boy was clearly suffering, quiet ever since that night, with a haunted, empty look in his eyes. Harry wanted to help Ron, but he was not much better himself.

Those that remained of the Order of the Phoenix and its allies had met at 12 Grimmauld Place for a final debrief, the mood somehow managing to be both frantic and miserable at the same time.

When the reason for their suspicions walked through the doors as if nothing was wrong, Harry was tempted to cut Snape down where he stood. Instead, cooler heads prevailed, though the so-called “double agent” was held at wandpoint regardless.

“I was not informed of the Dark Lord’s plans to attack Hogwarts,” Snape hissed, as he attempted to explain his actions on that horrible night.

“Convenient, that,” Moody snapped, “I bet you’ll say you didn’t know that the Malfoy brat was trying to kill Dumbledore next.”

“No,” Snape sighed deeply, “Dumbledore and I were both well aware of that particular plot. It was Albus’s decision to allow Draco to continue his actions, and it was by his instructions that I did not interfere.”

“That makes no sense,” Molly Weasley shouted, “you expect us to believe that Dumbledore wanted to die?”

“He was _already_ dying,” Snape argued, “we planned to turn Draco to our side when he worked up the courage to actually make an attempt on the Headmaster’s life, but if that failed, the intent was to use Draco’s guilt to convert him into a double-agent like myself.”

“That’s ludicrous,” Remus frowned, “Dumbledore showed no signs of being unwell.”

“Yeah, he did,” Harry sighed, admitting to himself that the plan Snape described sounded exactly like one of Dumbledore’s ‘everyone can be redeemed’ arguments, “and… yeah, Dumbledore was dying. Snape’s not lying about that.”

“Thank you for being the only one to see reason, Potter,” Snape grumbled, “it seems as if Albus was able to get you to learn something, after all.”

“This doesn’t mean I trust that you’re actually on our side, _Severus_ ,” Harry drawled his name mockingly, “the way I see it, unless you can provide us something useful, right this second, we’d be safer assuming that you’ve turned back to Voldemort, and dealing with you appropriately.”

“The Dark Lord,” Snape took a deep breath, “is… almost intoxicated by his own triumph. He speaks of the value of adding ‘new blood’ to his cause, and seems to be holding those of my generation responsible for his past failures.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Harry shrugged, “Moody, what do you-“

“It is a vulnerability,” Snape protested, “he revealed this to me, despite also telling me that I have not earned his full trust. He seems to become less guarded, not as cautious, when he thinks that he has achieved a victory. This kind of mania can be exploited, as can the fact that he intends to ramp up his efforts to recruit werewolves, vampires, and other Dark beings.”

“What does he plan next?” Harry snapped. This kind of intelligence _was_ useful, as much as he loathed to admit it, but Harry was not yet convinced.

“To attack the Ministry,” Snape sighed, “but that is the most obvious move.”

The interrogation of Severus Snape was interrupted by a loud crashing sound from the staircase leading to the attic, followed by shouts coming from Sirius and someone else. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat, and he immediately walked towards these noises with his wand drawn, leaving Moody, Remus, and Molly to guard Snape.

“You fucking rat,” Sirius snarled, holding Mundungus Fletcher in a headlock.

“I swear, Sirius, it wasn’t what you think,” Mundungus protested, trying to escape the hold.

“Sirius,” Harry snapped, exasperated, “what’s this about?”

“I just caught this little thief rummaging about in the attic,” Sirius explained, “in _my_ attic.”

Sirius dragged Mundungus into the lounge where Snape was already being held, looking up in surprise at the wands drawn on him.

“Looks like you’re in fine company, Dung,” Sirius growled, as he pitched Mundungus forward onto the floor. When the man landed, his cloak rattled and jangled, and an assortment of pilfered objects fell loose.

One looked shockingly familiar. Harry frowned in thought, pulling the false locket of Slytherin from his pocket, inspecting it, then glancing towards its apparent twin, lying on the floor of Sirius’s house.

_It couldn’t be…_

Harry stepped forward, reaching out towards the locket on the floor.

“Don’t!” Snape bellowed, and Moody stepped closer to him, driving his wand into Snape’s throat, “don’t touch it, Potter.”

“Trying to protect it?” Harry asked, though he _did_ pause with his hand still outstretched.

“If that is what I think it is,” Snape hissed, “it is likely cursed in some way. Do not repeat the mistake which left Albus dying.”

Harry grimaced, thinking through the options available to him.

“Moody,” he decided, “take Mundungus down to the basement and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. We’ll deal with him later. Molly, go get Ron, Hermione, and Fleur, bring them here, please.”

Harry drew his wand, pointing it at Snape.

“Snape, when the others arrive, you get to be the one to have a look at it. Sirius, if he tries anything, kill him.”

A moment of surprise seemed to ripple through the people gathered in the room, before the different people he’d given orders to started to do as Harry said.

Moments later, when only Harry’s most trusted allies remained in the room (though it pained him, he’d even dismissed Molly from what was about to happen), Harry permitted Snape to kneel down in front of the locket, where the Slytherin waved his hands over it, muttering under his breath.

“It is what we thought it might be,” Snape hissed after a few moments, his gaze flicking about to the people standing around him, “though it is not cursed, as far as I can detect.”

“A Horcrux,” Harry spoke, and Hermione drew in a breath in shock, while Remus and Sirius glanced at each other in confusion.

“This doesn’t leave this room,” he continued, “that’s a fragment of Voldemort’s soul, bound to an object. That’s how he was able to come back to life. Until we destroy all of them, and I think that there’s more than this one, he won’t ever die for good.”

“How do we destroy them?” Fleur asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“They are unsettlingly resilient,” Snape began to explain, “only vulnerable to forms of damage which destroy _everything_. I do not recommend using Fiendfyre indoors, and unless you happen to have a Basilisk stashed away in the Black mansion, our options at this time are somewhat limited.”

 _He’s not arguing **not** to destroy it, _Harry thought, _but neither does he seem eager to._

“If one of you feels up to it,” Snape continued, “it is possible that the Killing Curse could destroy the portion of a soul residing in this locket. This is not a guarantee, but it is the most likely avenue.”

“What else?” Harry inquired.

Snape rose slowly to his feet, sighing deeply as he did so.

“Black, if your family was as fearsome as their reputation is,” Snape turned his gaze to Sirius, “I would request that you search your stores for any of these three potions: Devouring Solution, Godric’s Bane, or Bile of Black Rot.”

Sirius looked to Harry, quirking an eyebrow. Harry pondered this for a moment, then nodded, and his Godfather left the room, though not before shooting a final, suspicious glance at Snape.

“Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Those are …” Hermione frowned, “rather fearsome potions. The first is sometimes used to dissolve objects with protective charms on them, and the second is a fast-acting poison that some stories claim is what killed Godric Gryffindor, but I’ve never heard of the last one.”

“It is also a poison,” Fleur interjected, “though not ‘fast-acting’. A single drop will kill its victim over the course of weeks, as their body rots from the inside out. A weapon used to assassinate even the most cautious, prepared wizards.”

“Ten points to Beauxbatons,” Snape drawled sarcastically, “that is correct. All three concoctions are brewed with Basilisk venom among their ingredients. If Black happens to have any of these, I would be able to refine the venom from the solution.”

When Sirius returned, he carried a deep frown on his face, but also a vial in his hands: glass, capped with a silver stopper that was carved to resemble a serpent’s skull. It was filled with a liquid which was such a dark green that it looked black.

“This was marked as ‘Bile of the Darkest Grave’,” Sirius spoke, “is that what you’re looking for?”

“Indeed,” Snape answered, reaching out towards him, “and careful; if you drop that, you’ll kill everyone in this room.”

“Give Hermione the vial, Sirius,” Harry decided, “Snape, you walk her through the steps. Fleur, Remus, if either of you have any idea what’s going on with potion-brewing, keep your eyes open for anything suspicious.”

After a long, agonizing process which required Sirius to retrieve potion-brewing equipment from storage at several points, Hermione had carefully poured the solution (which had turned a bright green) into a pipette marked with glowing runes along its surface.

“When you turn the valve,” Snape instructed, “what drips out will be pure Basilisk venom. I would recommend placing the Horcrux underneath, unless you acquire a bowl of Goblin-wrought silver to transport the venom.”

Harry sighed once again, as even now, he could only barely tolerate Snape’s pretentious brand of teaching. He knelt to the floor, and picked up the locket, holding his breath as he did so. Nothing happened when his fingers wrapped around it (perhaps because Fleur insisted that he wear a dragonhide glove to do so), but even despite the protections, something felt _odd_ about the object in his grasp.

He placed the locket underneath the potions contraption, gestured for everyone to stand back, and turned the valve open.

Nothing happened when the first drop struck the locket, and Harry’s hopes fell once more. The second drop of venom, however, started to cause wisps of black smoke to rise from the locket, and by the fifth drop, a horrible, quiet shriek began to sound.

The shriek was silenced in an instant when the seventh drop landed, and the locket suddenly collapsed in on itself as if rent by an outside force, turning into a twisted, ruined scrap of metal. When the final two drops landed (and what remained of the poison was exhausted), nothing happened beyond a faint hissing sound as the acidic venom ate away at the scraps.

_Fuck, I guess potions is good for something after all._

Harry was of two minds about this result: they had managed to salvage the pursuit of Slytherin’s locket through supreme fortune ( _if one thing were even slightly different,_ Harry thought, _Sirius wouldn’t have caught Mundungus stealing this, or I wouldn’t have noticed it, or…),_ but this result also meant that Snape had earned his way back into “double-agent” status.

He put his wand away, and gestured for the others to do the same.

“Well, Snape,” Harry spoke, “I guess that means we’ll have to work together for a bit longer, doesn’t it?”

“It would appear so,” Snape grumbled.

* * *

The night had turned into as much of a “celebration” as was possible given its grim surroundings. While Harry had remained secretive to the rest of the Order about what, exactly, their victory was, the news that they’d struck back against the Dark Lord in a meaningful way had returned a bit of life to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Firewhisky had poured freely, and everyone in attendance – even the youth – had imbibed at least enough to feel its reassuring warmth.

Fleur felt awful watching the Weasleys gather around Ron, who had been affected more deeply by the losses at Hogwarts than even the rest of his family. While he was not Fleur’s favourite person per se, she knew that Harry deeply valued his friendship, and she just hoped that Ron would regain the inner steel that she’d seen him demonstrate at times.

For now, Ron had drank until he finally fell unconscious, curled up on a couch in the lounge.

Before the rest of his family returned to their home, Fleur had overheard Molly Weasley wondering why it was that Harry had immediately stepped in to fill Dumbledore’s absence among the leadership of the Order, regretfully bemoaning that someone who was “still just a boy” should have to carry such a burden.

 _He has never been “just a boy”,_ Fleur knew, _that was stolen from him by many different people._

Though it made her strangely proud to see Harry asserting himself in this way, Fleur also knew that when _he_ realized the role he’d just stepped into, it would weigh heavily upon him.

Though it hadn’t been at his hand, the decision to obliviate Mundungus Fletcher and send him off to be arrested in France (Fleur’s _papa_ had revealed that the man had a warrant on his head for another theft) had come with Harry’s authorization.

 _Handling your enemies is one matter,_ Fleur thought, _disposing of an untrustworthy ally is another._

When she passed by the bedroom that Harry had taken for his own and heard muttering from within, a soft light spilling out into the hallway, her worries were confirmed. Inside the room, Harry sat at a desk, talking to himself as he scrawled on a piece of parchment.

“’Arry,” she spoke softly, walking into his bedroom and nudging the door shut behind her, “it is late. You must rest.”

“Hey, Fleur,” he answered, his voice fragile, “…yeah, I know, but I’ve got to… I’ve got to plan for what to do next.”

“That is a concern for tomorrow,” she told him, “you will find it easier to strategize if you are well-rested.”

He turned his gaze to her, and she saw a bleariness in his eyes which suggested he’d been crying at some point.

“I don’t know if I can,” Harry admitted, “when I close my eyes… I just keep remembering what’s happened.”

“Come,” she gently ordered, putting her hands under his arms to instruct him to stand, “lay down.”

Hesitantly, he lay in the bed, and she curled in behind him, her chest against his back.

“For now, you are safe,” she whispered, bringing her arm around his chest and drawing him tight against her, “I am here.”

He wrapped his own arms around hers, clutching to her as if he feared he might float away.

They did not speak again that night, but after a long while, Harry’s body relaxed, and Fleur heard the soft breaths of sleep coming from him.

She joined him in slumber soon afterward.

* * *

 _Three weeks,_ Harry thought, _three weeks is all it took for this to go sideways._

The four of them – Ron, Hermione, Fleur, and himself – had been casing out Borgin and Burke’s in Knockturn Alley, hoping to gather a list of likely Death Eater associates. Snape had revealed that Voldemort had become fixated on recruiting, and Harry intended to ensure that his own list of enemies remained up to date.

Even though they had been in disguise and under disillusionment charms, something had gone wrong.

“That’s Felix Rosier,” Ron had identified a man who walked into the shop after glancing around suspiciously outside its doors, “his cousin and uncle are both Death Eaters. Well, _was_ , in the cousin’s case.”

“Plausible connection to Voldemort,” Hermione muttered, “what do you think?”

“It’s enough to put him on the list,” Harry agreed, “even if he isn’t planning to take the mark, he might well be sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause, with that family history.”

“The Dark Lord will need money and assets beyond soldiers,” Fleur added, “some supporters may be limited to this sort of backing.”

Not wishing to linger any longer, the four had broken ranks, dispersing throughout Knockturn Alley before they could be spotted. They reunited at their planned meeting place before returning to 12 Grimmauld, an alleyway on the outskirts of Knockturn itself.

Ron and Hermione had already been there when Harry approached them, but Fleur hadn’t yet returned. When the signature _crack_ of Apparition sounded all around them, Harry’s wand was in his hand before he even realized what was happening.

 _Not fast enough, though,_ he thought, bitterly.

Most of the men who had surrounded them weren’t Death Eaters, but it seemed like _one_ of them was: a cruel-looking sort that the thugs in his company referred to as “Gibbons”, his silver mask lowered to hang around his neck.

“Well, wasn’t this too fuckin’ easy,” Gibbons drawled, as he prowled around Harry (who had been hit with a body-locking curse after stunning two of his attackers), Ron (stunned himself), and Hermione (bound in an _Incarcerous_ charm), “got all three of you, just like the Dark Lord wanted.”

Harry grit his teeth as he tried to will the rest of his body back into motion. They were outnumbered seven against three, but without the element of surprise, Harry doubted that the grimy-looking wizards milling around their Death Eater boss would be much of a threat.

 _Hopefully Fleur goes for backup,_ Harry thought: their other tactical advantage was that these men didn’t seem to be aware of her existence.

Instead, they were made _extremely_ aware of her existence, when she dropped into the alleyway from above, four of the seven men falling to the ground stunned before she even landed.

Harry felt the now-familiar touch of Fleur’s Veela allure right after, and two of the remaining three men stopped their counter-attacks halfway, their faces going slack as they stared at Fleur with a mixture of lust and awe.

In a way, Harry didn’t blame them. Through the haze of her allure, Fleur looked like an avenging angel who had descended straight from heaven, she seemed to shine with golden light and was _impossibly_ beautiful.

The flames which curled around her fingers only made her even more gorgeous to Harry.

“ _Rennervate,_ ” Fleur spoke, as she took advantage of this opportunity to restore Harry’s ability to move, but she failed to notice that the _third_ enemy – Gibbons himself – had not been distracted by her allure.

Harry felt his heart drop as Fleur was flung aside by the impact of the curse Gibbons hit her with, but he forced his concern for her to the back of his thoughts.

“Won’t work on me, half-breed slut,” Gibbons spat, a cruel grin on his face, “you’re too old, fuckin’ used-up whore.”

 _Expelliarmus,_ he thought, disarming the Death Eater before he could realize that Harry was capable of moving again, then Harry cast “ _Incarcerous_ ”, ensnaring Gibbons in thick ropes. He stunned the other two men (who were blinking in confusion as they were freed from Fleur’s allure) before they could act.

Harry glanced back towards Fleur, and felt indescribably relieved seeing her staggering back to her feet, bearing a painful-looking burn on her shoulder but otherwise unharmed. He quickly _rennervated_ Ron and cut Hermione free of her bindings, before turning to speak to Fleur.

“We have to go,” Harry cried, “there’ll be more of them on the way.”

“That’s right!” Gibbons, who was – unfortunately – still conscious, yelled, “and now that we know there’s four of you, we’ll get you next time, Potter!”

Fleur grimaced, and walked towards the bound man.

“Good trick, using your whore like that,” Gibbons continued to rant, “but she won’t save y-“

Fleur spat out a spell that Harry didn’t recognize as she flicked her wand towards Gibbons, and a silvery knife flew from the tip of her wand into the man’s chest. His words were interrupted by the impact of this weapon, and he looked up in shock, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times, before his eyes went blank and he slumped over, dead.

“I agree,” Fleur spoke, “we must leave.”

“You just…“ Hermione uttered, sounding horrified.

“ _Yes_ ,” Fleur continued, “now they will not know I was here, and there is one fewer Death Eater.”

As the four hurried away from the scene of this ambush and disapparated back to 12 Grimmauld, Harry was struck by the realization that Fleur’s actions didn’t bother him in the slightest.

* * *

Though they’d stopped their own investigations after being ambushed at Knockturn Alley, Fleur was pleased that Harry’s intelligence network had continued to produce names of likely Death Eater allies in the weeks that followed. While all of these people were valid targets, Fleur found herself particularly focused on the list of Death Eaters known to be active:

 _Amycus Carrow, Antonin Dolohov, Fenrir Greyback, Bellatrix Lestrange, Peter Pettigrew,_ she began recounting, _Gareth Selwyn, Edgar Rosier, Thorfinn Rowle, Tiberius Travers, and Corban Yaxley._

This list – ten people long – was far too long for Fleur’s liking.

According to one Severus Snape (who might still find himself on this list), the Dark Lord had only grown increasingly frustrated with his followers: it seemed that many who had served him in the last war were being cast aside in favour of those who took _initiative_ to carry out various atrocities, especially Greyback and Lestrange.

Greyback was of particular interest to Fleur; not only was he responsible for many of the deaths at Hogwarts, but to hear Snape speak of it, was the leader of the ravenous pack of werewolves that had joined with the Dark Lord’s forces.

 _Remove Greyback, and much of his pack would scatter to the wind,_ she thought.

Fleur began to focus on this name above all others when the Order received a rushed, frantic announcement from Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“I’ve just got word from my man on the inside,” Shacklebolt had breathlessly explained as soon as he arrived to 12 Grimmauld Place, “the Ministry’s capitulated. They’ve already started installing Death Eaters in some posts, and anyone who’s even the slightest bit opposed to the Dark Lord is fleeing underground, if they’ve any sense.”

This was, to be certain, a grim tiding, but it was nothing that Harry and his allies hadn’t expected.

What _was_ unexpected was just how quickly the Dark Lord began to assert his new status: a mere day after Shacklebolt had announced the fall of the Ministry of Magic, the Weasley family arrived in a chaotic, disjointed manner. Many of them bore injuries, and all smelled of smoke.

“The Burrow’s gone,” Arthur Weasley had explained through gritted teeth, as Remus healed a gash on his side, “we’re all fine, thank Merlin, but… they practically sent an _army._ No fewer than a dozen werewolves, and five Death Eaters, if I got their count right.”

Ron, standing behind Harry, had scowled even more deeply than when he’d first heard of the attack on his family. Fleur understood why: Greyback had already taken more from Ron than anyone else had lost in this war.

“We should hit back,” Fleur voiced her thoughts, and several of the Order members nodded along with her, while others (Molly Weasley and Hermione among them) argued that the priority should be ensuring their own safety first.

“Who?” Harry asked, and his voice wasn’t loud, but somehow it carried enough _presence_ to cut through the debate that Fleur had suddenly ignited.

“Greyback,” she answered, and for the first time since the war had begun, saw a spark of _fire_ in Ron’s eyes.

* * *

Harry had to remind himself that he shouldn’t feel triumphant.

After all, even if they had accomplished one small victory, it came after a series of losses. The day after the Burrow had been destroyed, Death Eaters had hit the Bones family, slaughtering them to a soul. Harry hadn’t exactly been close with Susan, but he’d certainly been friendly with the vivacious young girl who had been a member of the DA, and now she was dead. Torn to pieces.

From how they had been _massacred,_ it was clear that the Bones family had been killed by Greyback’s pack. Harry could almost “ _understand”_ why Voldemort would have targeted Amelia Bones, fearsome witch that she was, but to have killed her entire extended family along with her?

_Greyback is out of control._

When a third attack had failed to manifest itself the next day, Harry immediately put his plan into action, counting on his enemies feeling too sure of themselves following whatever awful “celebrations” they were carrying out.

It had worked. One of Kingsley’s former-Aurors had caught sight of Greyback swaggering through Diagon Alley as if he were untouchable, and Harry took advantage of this opportunity. Kingsley, Moody, Sirius, and himself had caught Greyback with his pants down ( _literally_ ), apparating in, stunning him, and disapparating with their prisoner before Greyback could finish pissing against the wall of a pub.

With one decisive act, they had removed one of Voldemort’s top lieutenants, someone who was sure to have valuable information which even Snape didn’t know. However, this victory only led to a _new_ problem, which Harry struggled to solve.

They’d imprisoned Greyback in the basement of a building that Kingsley had promised was secure, but in attempting to interrogate him, had only made the unpleasant discovery that – apparently – werewolves could resist the effects of the truth potion, _veritaserum._

Even Moody hadn’t been able to break the lunatic’s will, and so far, all they’d managed to discover was that Greyback was even _worse_ than Harry had already thought he was.

Harry never would have thought that he’d ever wind up thinking that Moody was “soft” in any way, which was part of why he struggled to accept what he’d already decided to do.

As he descended to the basement, Harry spotted Ron slouched against a wall at the side of the room, glowering at Greyback but not saying anything. Fleur and Hermione were more alert, sitting on chairs away from the reach of their prisoner, their wands drawn on him. 

“Fleur, ‘Mione,” Harry announced as he finished taking the last step, “go take next watch upstairs, if you don’t mind?”

“ _Oui,_ of course,” Fleur agreed in an instant, bustling Hermione along with her over his friend’s protests that it wasn’t time to switch out guards yet. Ron slumped away from the wall, making as if he was going to follow them.

“Ron,” Harry interrupted, “you stick around.”

When Fleur and Hermione had left, Harry cast a number of privacy charms, blocking sound from escaping the basement.

“Acting awful tough, aren’t you, Potter?” Greyback snarled from where he was bound in silver chains, “I can’t believe that _you’re_ who the Dark Lord considers his greatest enemy, you’re _useless._ ”

Harry drew a silver dagger from within his cloak, turning it over in his hands.

“Last chance, Greyback,” he spoke, and heard his own voice creak, “tell us what your Lord has got planned next, and then we can cut a deal.”

“Fuck yourself,” Greyback spat on the floor, “I’ll die first.”

“…fine.” Harry walked towards the chained werewolf, his heart hammering in his chest the entire time. Before his nerves could fail, Harry slashed the dagger into Greyback’s chest, cutting him deeply, though not deep enough to be lethal.

“You think that scares me?” Greyback snorted, seemingly unaffected by the sizzling sound his wound was making, “I can _smell_ how afraid you are, boy, you don’t even have the guts to torture me right, let alone kill me.”

Harry sighed, setting the knife down on a table.

“I’ve got your scent, fucker!” Greyback jeered, grinning widely to show his jagged teeth, “once I get out of here, you and your friends won’t be able to hide from me! I think that after I’m done tearing her apart, I’ll show you your little Veela whore’s heart before I eat it!”

Harry drew his wand, and pointed it at Greyback.

“ _Crucio!”_ he cried.

Nothing happened. Harry heard Ron gasp in surprise behind him, and the shuffling of his friend’s feet as he approached.

“Ha!” the werewolf threw his head back in laughter (such that he could, in his restraints), “you’re telling me you don’t even hate me enough to get a decent Cruciatus off? How fucking precious! You’re not just afraid, you’re limp-dicked and worthless!”

“I do,” Ron spoke softly beside Harry.

“Oh, another Weasley?” Greyback cackled, “how kind of you! They’re fucking _delicious,_ after all, and you’ve delivered one right to me!”

Ron walked towards Greyback, and in an instant, plunged the silver dagger into Greyback’s eye.

 _At least **that** got a reaction, _Harry thought, as the werewolf shrieked in pain, the foul smell of burning flesh in the air.

“I hate you enough,” Ron continued, taking a step back from the werewolf as he drew his wand. “ _Crucio_ ,” Ron spoke, and Greyback howled in pain as the curse took him.

When Ron lifted his wand, he glanced over his shoulder, meeting Harry’s gaze. Harry could see the lingering hurt in Ron’s eyes, but behind that, he saw a grim determination.

Harry nodded.

“ _Crucio_!” Ron repeated.

“Now,” Harry spoke, after Greyback finished convulsing, “what does your Lord have planned?”

“I’ll f-fucking kill you,” Greyback stuttered.

“Ron,” Harry ordered, “again.”

“ _Crucio_!”

* * *

In the end, Fenrir Greyback had not been worth much.

While Fleur didn’t know exactly what had transpired in that basement, she suspected that by the time Ron had plunged a silver dagger into the werewolf’s heart, it had been an undeserved mercy.

Greyback had not known anything of particular value. He claimed that his master had contended himself after attacking the Weasley and Bones families, and that the Dark Lord’s newest focus was placing Death Eaters in charge of Hogwarts.

 _We already knew this,_ Fleur thought, _it is Snape that seeks the Headmaster position, after all._

To hear what Greyback had said, it sounded as if their enemies believed they had already won, that Harry Potter was nothing more than a lingering vendetta of the Dark Lord’s. Worse, Harry reported that Greyback seemed to be bewildered as to the very concept of a Horcrux, let alone knowing anything about where the other two were hidden.

 _Greyback’s capture brought no great gain,_ Fleur decided, _but it was certainly no loss._

Fleur knew that she was not going to come out of this war with a clean conscience, and had accepted that fact long before she’d first killed a Death Eater. If anything, the instincts of her Veela blood sang in her heart; her people were well-accustomed to fury, preferred to take what they wanted without compunction, and believed that enemies existed in one of two states: _ashes, and not yet set ablaze._

She was surprised that Harry had been so quick to join her in this realization, but it was just another mark in favour of his growing _power_.

Despite their success, it had not taken long for their enemies to strike back. When Moody burst through the doors of 12 Grimmauld carrying a pale young woman in his arms, Fleur had not even recognized her as Nymphadora Tonks at first. The once-vibrant Auror had been fortunate enough to survive her wounds thanks to the healing administered by Remus, but his magic could do nothing to restore the leg that Tonks had lost.

Harry had been shaken at first, only to grow _wrathful_ the morning after: the Daily Prophet made no effort to hide what had happened, instead spinning a tale that the Tonks family had been murdered by their own daughter ( _“everyone knows that the Metamorphmagus is a chaotic and untrustworthy being”,_ the article claimed), who had gone missing ( _“Dangerous! Do not approach the creature!”)_ after slaughtering a classroom of Muggle schoolchildren.

The picture of the latter scene displayed the word “ _POTTER_ ” written in blood. The article concluded by pleading with “known fugitive Harry Potter” to surrender himself to Ministry custody, before any more “deranged half-breeds” carried out massacres in a “misguided attempt at revenge for his attack on the Werewolf community”.

When Tonks regained consciousness, the only word she spoke before falling back into a heavy sleep was “Dolohov”.

 _A new name is at the top of my list,_ Fleur decided.

* * *

 _We didn’t plan for this,_ Harry thought, frowning in thought.

Moody and Kingsley had shared what they knew of Antonin Dolohov, and when Snape had finally been able to report, he had painted a grim picture of their latest target. Apparently, even _Voldemort_ had to warn his Dolohov to cease his predation on the Muggles, as the Death Eater’s habit of murdering people at random was drawing too much attention.

Harry had thought to set a trap based on this knowledge, placing some of the more talented combatants of the Order in Muggle communities around Diagon Alley, hoping that they could catch Dolohov unawares and ambush him before he could carry out another massacre.

Instead, it seemed that Dolohov was obedient above all else, because he’d all but vanished from the public eye for weeks. From the picture that Snape had painted, Harry was surprised that someone who was known as being brutal and violent by the standards of _Death Eaters_ could be so patient.

Fleur suspected that Dolohov was being employed as a hit-wizard, and that any of the Order agents or ex-Aurors who suddenly fell silent might very well have fallen at his hands. 

“I don’t understand,” Hermione muttered, “they’re all just… going along with it?”

“Many people care more about their own safety than they do about what is right,” Fleur commented, “it is rare, to be like us.”

The three of them (Ron stayed behind for this mission, as Harry doubted that his friend could blend into Muggle culture very effectively) had decided to stake out a café not far from Diagon Alley, based on little more than rumours that homeless people had been going missing from the area. It was proving just as fruitless as their other leads, leaving the trio to skim over the latest issue of the _Prophet_ , which demonstrated just how thoroughly the bulk of Magical society had rolled over and surrendered to Voldemort.

“I don’t even understand it,” Harry grumbled, “rich old Purebloods who think they’re special? Yeah, I figure they’d be in favour. But now that Voldemort’s started palling around with werewolves, vampires, and the like, where’d all those biases go? I mean, fuck’s sake, look here,” Harry pointed at one article, “they’re celebrating this vampire, Biagio whoever, as an ‘expert investigator’, just because it’s Voldemort’s Ministry that made him an Auror?”

“Allies, enemies,” Fleur shrugged, “for ze dictator, these labels change on a whim, whoever is most convenient at the time.”

Harry understood _very_ well how fickle public opinion could be, but he had never thought that so many witches and wizards would be just as willing to fall in line under _Voldemort_ as they had been under all the feckless Ministers of Magic in recent years.

 _I wonder why Dumbledore never became Minister?_ Harry pondered. For all of the legendary wizard’s titles and achievements, in retrospect, it seemed as if Dumbledore had stopped short of consolidating that last bit of power into his grasp.

 _Almost seems like he didn’t want things to change,_ Harry thought bitterly, _either that, or he realized that he’d have become a dictator himself, and lost his nerve._

Harry wasn’t sure if he’d make the same decision, presented with the opportunity.

The door to the café swung open, and a tall man wearing a trench coat walked in. Harry’s hand slid towards his wand, relaxing only when the man’s face was revealed: A Muggle businessman, wearing a perfectly ordinary suit and tie.

“I just can’t believe there’d be so many collaborators,” Hermione whispered, as the man walked past their table, “I had hoped for better, you know?”

“You are an optimist,” Fleur sighed, “I admire about that you, but you ‘ave always seen the best in people, ‘Ermione.”

Harry started to reply, before he was interrupted as the booth they sat in blew up.

* * *

Fleur’s head spun as she tried to figure out what just happened, and the realization that they were under attack sent shocks of fear through her nerves.

“Amateur,” the man in the trench coat spoke, as the Muggle waitress screamed behind him. He flicked his hand ( _which held a wand, how did we not notice?_ ) and the waitress went silent suddenly. The man snapped his fingers, and his features warped and shifted, revealing Antonin Dolohov.

“From how you got Greyback, I was hoping for a challenge,” Dolohov continued speaking, seemingly unconcerned, and Fleur made to rise to her feet. An unseen force slammed into her chest, driving her back into the wall hard enough that she was sure she must have broken a rib, and kept her pinned there. “I suppose that, after all, he was nothing more than a mangy half-breed, it makes sense that he was not as capable as a _real_ wizard.”

The red bolt of a stunner flew through the air towards Dolohov, but it merely sparked off of an invisible shield charm, and when the Death Eater flicked his wand in return, Fleur heard Harry grunt in pain.

“Children, playing at war,” Dolohov scoffed, “if there’s any one indicator of how degenerate our society has become, it’s that this pathetic display comes from one called a ‘prodigy’.”

 _Harry is more capable than that,_ Fleur tried to figure out what was wrong even though her thoughts felt muddled, _he is panicking. Reverting to old habits, casting mere jinxes, as if he is back at that horrible graveyard._

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Hermione yelled from the other side of the room, but her attack was no more successful than Harry’s had been.

“You’re not going to win a fight with schoolyard charms,” Dolohov drawled disdainfully, “ _Ossio Diffringo!”_

Hermione screamed as Fleur heard her leg snap, and she fell to the ground.

“You know,” Dolohov continued, unimpressed, “I thought that it was a punishment at first, when I got put on taboo duty, but now? I can only imagine the reward I’ll get for bringing you in, Potter.”

“ _Bombarda!”_ Harry screamed, but Dolohov merely swatted his wand through the air, dispelling Harry’s attack before it reached him.

Fleur’s blood began to burn, as she flared out her allure in desperation, feeling her hands shifting into talons. The invisible force keeping her pinned had not abated, her head spun, and her vision blurred, but she struggled against it all the same.

“Oh?” Dolohov turned to her, and his gaze was empty of any emotion whatsoever, “it seems you’ve got a half-breed with you, Potter. A Veela, if I’ve got its measure?” the Death Eater turned away from her nonchalantly, dismissing her even as he addressed her: “good try, but your tainted blood won’t make a difference against any middling Occlumens.”

Fleur screamed, half in fury, half due to the way that the pressure on her chest increased, driving her against the wall with such force that the plaster had begun to crack around her.

“We’ve been ordered to take you in alive, of course,” Dolohov sounded as if he was carrying on a casual conversation, “but no such protection applies to your friends. What do you say, Potter? Should I start with the Mudblood, or the half-breed?”

Fleur unleashed _everything_ she had, as flames erupted from her hands, and pain shot through her body as she felt her knees buckle, inverting into a bird’s legs.

“Fleur!” Harry cried in fear. 

_He is not in his right mind,_ she realized, _the ambush has shaken him._

“Ah, the half-breed it is!” Dolohov turned to her, a relaxed smile on his face, even though the remnants of the table had burst into flame around her.

Dolohov flicked his wand, and Fleur felt a gash open under her breast. She _shrieked_ , and even through the pain, she could tell that her voice had become something that was nowhere close to “human” in its timbre.

“Look at your monster, Potter!” Dolohov chuckled, “not so pretty now, is she?”

“ _Imperio,_ ” a quiet voice spoke from the back of the room. Dolohov’s eyes glazed over for a moment, before they reignited in _fury_.

“How _dare_ you, Mudblood?” Dolohov turned to face Hermione, reacting for the first time to _anything_ they had attempted.

 _I am not a monster,_ Fleur thought, _but I **will** be, if it will save them._

She pushed her allure harder than she ever had before, and Dolohov staggered, turning back in her direction for a fraction of a second.

“ _Imperio!”_ Hermione repeated, and Dolohov went stiff, his face contorting into an expression of absolute rage as he fought the curse.

Fleur did not intend to give him any respite, and she screamed in fury and hatred as she felt a bone burst free from her shoulder blade. She stopped thinking, lost herself in pure feeling, drowned in bloodlust.

“Fleur!” a voice broke through the surface, and she blinked. It sounded familiar, but who-

“Fleur! We’ve got him!” the voice – _Harry_ – spoke again, and Fleur released her primal magic, collapsing to the floor in agony as her body reshaped itself back to her human form.

Dolohov stood in the middle of the destroyed café, his eyes blank and face slack. It seemed that Hermione’s attempts to bring him under the Imperius Curse had succeeded, the Death Eater unable to weather that attack and her allure at once, despite his formidable skill in magic.

“Tell me what the Dark Lord has planned next,” Hermione commanded. She stood awkwardly, her broken leg no doubt bolstered as much by magic as it was by her own willpower.

“We are going to free our missing members from Azkaban,” Dolohov spoke dispassionately.

“Ask him about the Horcruxes,” Harry grunted, and Fleur noticed that blood seeped through the front of his shirt as she shakily stood to her feet beside him.

“Tell me where the Dark Lord has hidden his Horcruxes,” Hermione ordered the Death Eater.

“I don’t know what a Horcrux is.” Dolohov answered, his voice just as flat as before, though a look of confusion spread over his features.

“Hermione, we need to go, Fleur’s hurt,” Harry sounded worried.

 _Oh._ _Right._ When she glanced down at herself, Fleur noticed that there was an uncomfortable amount of blood spilling down her chest.

“Tell me what you were going to do next,” Hermione said, holding her hand up in a ‘ _wait a minute_ ’ gesture.

“After killing the half-breed and the Mudblood,” Dolohov answered, “I would send a signal to my allies, and when they arrived, we would deliver the Potter boy to the Dark Lord.”

Fleur’s legs grew weak, and she sagged against Harry, who slung her arm over his shoulder to help keep her standing.

“Wait for five minutes,” Hermione hissed, “then send the signal. When your allies arrive, kill as many as you can before they kill you.”

 _Not bad, Hermione,_ Fleur thought, as she started to grow so dizzy she could have collapsed.

She barely even noticed the whirl of apparition when Harry took her to safety.

* * *

After he had begrudgingly delivered his report to the Order members he’d summoned, Harry spent the rest of the night pacing through the hallway outside of Fleur’s bedroom. Inside, Remus was working to save her, as Dolohov had struck her with what could have easily been a lethal blow.

When Remus finally exited the room, looking exhausted, all of Harry’s attention flew to him in an instant.

“She’ll be fine, Harry,” Remus sighed, looking as if he could barely remain standing himself, “she’s awake, you can talk to her, just…”

“Just?” Harry dreaded what he might say next.

“Be gentle, alright? It’s closed for now, but I don’t want her re-opening that wound, so don’t, uh, be too vigorous.”

“…what?” Harry was perplexed, both by Remus’s warning and by the way that the man seemed to get embarrassed about delivering it.

_It’s not like I’m planning on taking Fleur flying or something..._

“Never mind,” Remus turned away, avoiding Harry’s baffled gaze, “goodnight, Harry.”

_Weird._

Inside the room, Fleur lay on her back in her bed, looking pale, nervous, and _fragile_ in a way that Harry had never seen from her before.

“Hey, beautiful,” Harry spoke, his own voice hitching as he did. It was one of the many different compliments they teased each other with, but Harry knew that he actually meant it every time.

“’Arry!” she cried, and tears began to flow from her eyes.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe now,” Harry murmured, immediately crossing the room to cradle her head gently in his arms, “you’re going to be fine, Fleur.”

 _How strange it is,_ he thought, _that I’ve seen her at her most powerful and her weakest in the span of hours._

While Harry understood that many people would have found the way that Fleur had transformed into her Veela form to be terrifying, Harry had found it _amazing,_ and he knew that this feeling couldn’t be explained away by the touch of her allure.

He also knew that it was difficult for her to undertake this transformation, as she’d explained to him that it affected her mind in uncomfortable ways, pushed her to act in ways that she didn’t want to.

 _I know that feeling,_ he thought.

Despite the toll it had taken on her, she’d done this to protect _him,_ and even more miraculously, her and Hermione had managed to take down one of the most fearsome Death Eaters together, while he had laid on the floor, defeated and useless. 

He simultaneously felt overwhelmed by gratitude, by awe, and by pride in his friend. It was a strange feeling, one that Harry was fairly sure he hadn’t experienced before.

After he held her for a while, muttering whatever reassurances came to mind, Harry noticed that she had begun to calm down, the exhaustion that she must have felt finally beginning to overwhelm her. He swept his hand to turn off the lights, and made to stand so that she could rest.

She made a noise of protest, then spoke rapidly in French, words that Harry didn’t understand (despite his efforts to learn some of the basics of her mother tongue).

“Fleur, I don’t know what you’re saying,” he told her gently.

“Stay,” she practically begged, and Harry couldn’t argue.

He slipped into the bed beside her, and she immediately curled against his side, her back pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, reassuring her that he wasn’t going anywhere, trying to do his best to ensure that she felt _safe_ in the same way that she had done for him.

Harry must have been more tired than he thought, because he also fell asleep moments after laying down with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit darker, but it isn't midnight yet.
> 
> I started out writing this chapter fully intending to cover the entirety of the war in one installment... then I got five thousand words in and realized "hmm, might need to cut this one in half". So, enjoy! 
> 
> The next chapter will hurtle through the rest of the war and the beginnings of its fallout, and then after that, we'll be in "entirely different than canon" territory!
> 
> I'd really appreciate feedback on this chapter, especially as it's a bit outside of my norm for fic-writing


	5. but he knows not what it means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Wizarding War, in all its triumph and tragedy, chaos and confusion, reaches its end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: while not explicitly graphic, this chapter includes magical warfare that gets more grim than canon events did. Torture, death, injury, and themes of self-sacrifice which could be read as "suicide" are all present in this chapter. 
> 
> It's also long and chaotic by intent, so be pre-warned that this one is meant to be kind of hard to get through.

Fleur checked her watch one last time, hidden beneath the confines of Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility.

_10:05 A.M._

She glanced at the carriage parked out front of the Daily Prophet, where the rune-stones within had been prepared on a three-hour duration at precisely 7:07 that morning. The newspaper’s office opened at nine in the morning, but its newest editor – one Felix Rosier – had a reputation for showing up a little over an hour late.

With one minute left, Harry appeared in front of the building with the _crack_ of apparition, and as soon as he arrived, flicked his wand towards the upper floors of the office, causing its windows to explode violently.

Panic immediately erupted in the street, as people screamed and began to flee in different directions. The man they’d had in mind – Rosier – had frozen in front of the office, seemingly torn between running inside the building to hide and running away.

“From the ashes!” Harry bellowed as he threw a fireball at the second floor, setting the exterior ablaze. Following his announcement of the Order of the Phoenix’s new rallying cry, Harry turned on his heel, running away from the scene on foot.

Fleur waited.

When the clock rolled over to 10:07, the runes she and Harry had prepared inside the carriage activated, and an explosion ripped through the sidewalk in front of the Daily Prophet. As far as she could tell, Rosier had been in front of it.

Fleur watched the chaotic scene in front of her grow even more disjointed, as various _Prophet_ employees fled the building, many screaming as they did so. It did not take long for the “authorities” to arrive: three rough-looking men wearing Auror’s robes, and a tall figure in a black cloak wearing a silver mask.

Under the cover of invisibility, Fleur crept forwards.

“What happened here?” the Death Eater snarled, and Fleur could tell it was a man beneath the mask.

“I-it was Potter, sir,” a frightened civilian reported, “he, he ran that way…”

“You two,” the Death Eater ordered, “go pursue. Scabior, you’re wit-“

Fleur pressed the tip of her wand against the back of the Death Eater’s neck, and cast _bombarda_ silently. Everything above the Death Eater’s belly button disappeared in an explosion of gore, covering his three minions (and the horrified bystander) in blood.

She whipped the Cloak of Invisibility aside, revealing herself, and yelled “From the ashes!” with all her heart, her voice only slightly muffled by the featureless golden mask she wore.

One of the three surviving men was sharp enough to draw his wand on her, but when Harry reappeared, apparating into the middle of the three, he sent out a pulse of force that hurled the men aside, collapsing unconscious (or worse) as soon as they landed.

Harry nodded, and she flicked her wand, summoning a small charm which looked like a phoenix flying around. As the spell took wing, they both apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Did you see who it was you got?” Harry asked.

“I did not see his face, but it was definitely a man wearing the mask,” Fleur confirmed.

“Hmm,” Harry muttered, “that was probably Rowle, Rosier, or Macnair, then. We’ll need to keep an eye out, but whichever one it was, well done.”

“You as well,” Fleur removed her mask, “you continue to prove your value as bait, _mon beau_.”

“Might as well be good for something, yeah?” Harry grinned ruefully.

* * *

Harry had decided that experience was the best teacher he had available. After all, he’d learned more from Dolohov than Dumbledore had managed to teach him.

Harry had panicked during the Death Eater’s ambush, reverting back to _stunners_ out of habit ( _or out of Dumbledore’s lingering influence?),_ like he was still a fucking second-year.

That mistake was one that he swore he’d never repeat again.

At least Hermione had managed to salvage that catastrophe, as Dolohov had wound up killing Gareth Selwyn before he’d been brought down himself. Even more helpfully, Arthur Weasley had managed to puzzle out how it was that Dolohov had got the drop on them: apparently, a “taboo” was a wide-ranging tracking spell keyed to a specific phrase, which the corrupt Ministry had applied to Voldemort’s name.

The next lesson that Harry had learned was the value of anonymity.

Just as the Order had been keeping track of particularly notable figures, their enemies had done the same: when the Death Eaters had learned that one of Kingsley’s Aurors – a man named Proudfoot – was behind recent attacks on the “Snatcher” network, they’d laid in wait, learning Proudfoot’s schedule, until they had ambushed him at a pub and killed everyone inside.

Harry decided that his allies should start wearing masks after that.

Still, Harry was encouraged that the Order of the Phoenix was becoming something of a movement, rather than just a select group of allies. It seemed that there _were_ still some people who refused to accept Voldemort’s reign, as much as he’d been disappointed that this stance was so rare.

It didn’t help that Dolohov’s prediction had come true, as the Death Eaters imprisoned in Azkaban had been unleashed on the world once again. Harry and Fleur’s list had doubled in size, just when it seemed that they were making a dent in it.

The last few weeks had followed this pattern of planning, actions, and reactions: Voldemort released his less-competent followers to bolster his ranks; the Order made certain to target these Death Eaters who weren’t as prepared for the new course of the war. Just as easily-manipulated as their sons, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe Srs. had been baited into ambushes, where Sirius and Kingsley had taken down the former, and Ron dealt with the latter.

In retaliation, Voldemort had sent his forces to raid _The Quibbler_ , and it weighed on Harry that while Xenophilius Lovegood’s body had been left on display, Luna was missing entirely.

It only made sense to Harry that he should respond in kind, and the attack that Fleur and he had carried out on the Daily Prophet the day before had been even more successful than Voldemort’s raid on Harry’s ally in the media.

The next step for Harry was to try and determine what Voldemort would order in response, and Harry hoped that if he could anticipate his enemy’s moves, that the Order could set up a _counter_ -ambush beforehand.

He had _not_ been expecting the next development.

Moody had appeared unannounced, looking noticeably bewildered.

“Harry,” the old Auror rasped, “we’ve got a prisoner.”

“Who?” Harry wondered. There weren’t too many targets they had been staking out that were meant to be taken alive.

“Rodolphus Lestrange,” Moody answered, and Harry’s curiosity grew.

“Who brought him in?” Harry asked, “he’s not on the ‘dead or alive’ list.”

“That’s the thing,” Moody grumbled, “he turned himself in. Surrendered.”

 _That’s… that’s got to be a ploy,_ Harry thought suspiciously. _What could motivate a man as prideful and evil as the Lestranges are to surrender?_

“What’s the angle, Mad-Eye?” Harry trusted the elder wizard’s instincts, even if he’d come to discover that Moody was significantly less blood-thirsty than his reputation suggested.

“From what King says,” Moody answered, “he’s flipped his wig over some Pureblood shite. Something about his ‘rights as Lord and husband’, but I haven’t got the patience to figure out what that means.”

Harry pondered this.

 _It’s true that Voldemort’s cause has shifted its priorities this time around,_ he reasoned, _much more focused on the supremacy of Dark magic, rather than Purebloods._

From what Fleur and Hermione had told him, Harry understood that Voldemort’s message now hewed closer to that of Grindelwald’s, which made some sense; the _previous_ Dark Lord had amassed a much larger following than Voldemort had ever managed, and Tom Riddle was nothing if not envious of others’ achievements.

“What’s he offering?” Harry didn’t have much regard for anyone who adhered to Pureblood traditions in lieu of basic decency, but he knew that the Lestrange family were _competent_ for all their monstrosity. Rodolphus wouldn’t turn himself in unless he thought he could make a deal.

“That’s what worries me,” Moody responded, “he says he’ll only deal with you, personally. All that he’ll tell us – even with a dose of Veritaserum in him – is that he knows something about ‘what his wife is hiding’.”

 _Fuck._ Harry cursed internally. This might very well be the first lead they’d managed to find towards the location of Voldemort’s fifth Horcrux, but it still had the feeling of a trap of some sort.

He decided that the risk was worth it.

“Move him around to a few sites,” Harry ordered, “make sure he’s swept for charms and tracking spells, and put a full contingent of your hardest hitters outside the second-to-last place you move him. Take him somewhere _quiet_ right after, and get me a portkey there.”

It wasn’t perfect, but Harry figured this plan should at least confuse any efforts to use Rodolphus as bait.

* * *

“Harry Potter,” Rodolphus Lestrange drawled, somehow managing to come off as arrogant despite being bound to a chair, “I must admit, I thought you’d be more, hmm, impressive. I suppose one cannot help the circumstances of their birth, after all.”

“Lestrange,” Harry had no patience for this bullshite, “what do you want?”

“Ah, a most efficient man,” Lestrange spoke, “I can respect that, to some degree, I suppose. My desires, I must admit, are the most basic sort; I want what any wronged man wants.”

_Fuck, they love to hear themselves talk._

“I want _revenge_.” Lestrange concluded.

“Revenge on…?” Harry had also learned that, as annoying as it was, allowing one of the Pureblood extremists to keep talking often led to them revealing their secrets out of sheer stupid pride.

“On the Dark Lord,” Lestrange seemed far too calm about this revelation, and Harry’s instincts that he was missing something redoubled.

Harry had brought his most trusted allies with him – Fleur, Ron, and Hermione – but he’d asked them to remain outside and on-guard while he spoke to Lestrange. He wondered if he should have brought Sirius, but didn’t want to risk even more movements which might be detected.

“Explain,” Harry ordered, keeping his own statements brief.

“Our culture has standards, you understand,” Lestrange started to ramble again, “the Pureblood tradition is what made our people great, allowed us to achieve our works, and to see it brought low by blood traitors? To see great families falling into degeneracy, breeding with Mudbloods? This is unconscionable.”

“Get to the point, Lestrange.”

“When I joined the Dark Lord,” the Death Eater continued, “it was because he was the greatest advocate for our people, the only one willing to do what must be done. But now, after his return? The Dark Lord has become… diminished. Lesser.”

 _Tom Riddle’s a half-blood anyways,_ Harry mused, though he didn’t see fit to share that bit of knowledge.

“He cavorts with _beasts_ , and expects us to treat his pet half-breeds as if they are our equals. He spits on the traditions he once fought to uphold, and worse, spreads his madness through those pure of blood.”

“None of this is news to me,” Harry sighed, “you aren’t offering much, Lestrange.”

“Certain bonds _cannot_ be violated!” Lestrange complained, “the sacred compact between man and wife is, above all else, central to our society. The Dark Lord has turned my own wife against me, she has forgotten that it is _I_ who is the head of my House, and yet she thinks herself my superiour because she enjoys his favour.”

_Envy, really? That’s all it took to get you to abandon his cause?_

“It is even rumoured that the Dark Lord has taken her to bed,” Lestrange sniffed, “and when I demanded that she answer for this, to put such slanders to rest, she _laughed_ at me, Potter. Can you imagine?”

Harry truly, on every level, did **not** want to imagine that.

“And what part of your… marital issues, exactly, is of any use to me?” Harry grumbled.

“It can be said to be something of an oversight,” Lestrange maintained his circumlocution, “that it is so difficult to rid oneself of a spouse who has become a liability. Divorce is a near impossibility in our culture, as I am sure you were not aware.”

“I’ll find you a lawyer,” Harry sighed, “is that it?”

“I have prepared contracts, sworn oaths and performed rituals,” Lestrange finally got to the point, “my divorce is nearly finalized, except for one troubling restriction. You see, it is impossible for me to rid myself of the woman so long as I continue to _recognize_ our marriage, so this is the request I make of you: it seems likely that you have at least one Legilimens of some talent in your fold. I want them to remove these vexing memories from my mind, at which point the _geasa_ I have prepared will activate, and I will finally be freed of her degeneracy.”

Harry couldn’t exactly complain about the opportunity to remove Rodolphus Lestrange from the board at no real cost to himself, but he still failed to grasp why the Death Eater had thought that Harry would be sympathetic to his “plight”.

“What do you offer in exchange?” Harry asked.

“I will tell you something that I recently became aware of,” Lestrange answered mysteriously, “if you swear to me that you will do as I have requested.”

Harry pondered this, and couldn’t come up with a downside to the idea.

“Fine, we’ll obliviate you, make you forget you’d ever married Bellatrix _Lestrange_.” Harry agreed, but couldn’t help to emphasize her name. “Now, your end of the bargain?”

“The Dark Lord…” Lestrange began, “has charged my _dear wife_ with the custody of something precious to him. I know not what it is, but she has been on the move for months, transporting it to and fro. As of last week, the object is stored in the Lestrange family vault, and she has even been so presumptuous as to deny _me_ from accessing it.”

Harry’s heart sped up on hearing these words. _That’s got to be a Horcrux,_ he realized.

“Furthermore, upon the completion of my divorce,” the arrogant Pureblood continued, “Bellatrix shall become a Black once more, no longer sullying the name of Lestrange. She will find herself barred from the vault, the Dark Lord’s treasure out of his reach. Goblins may be a foul, meddlesome race, but if nothing else, they are quite particular about enforcing the terms of contracts. The Lestrange family agreement is rather clear: _only_ one bearing our name may enter our vault.”

“Won’t they just track you down,” Harry realized, “and use you to get into the vault?”

“I am not so naïve, Potter,” Lestrange hummed, “as to think that you would permit me to linger in Magical Britain. I fully expect that you will send me somewhere far away from here after you have handled my memories, and all I request is that you _try_ to move me to a decent country, without too many Mudbloods running around.”

Harry turned the idea over in his head. The plan that Lestrange proposed sounded far from fool-proof, but it gave him a useful advantage: it would ensure that one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes was kept in hostile territory, as the Goblins were _no_ friends to the Dark Lord.

 _Granted, getting into the vault ourselves is going to be more than a little tricky,_ Harry figured, _but that’s a lesser problem than tracking down a Horcrux that Bellatrix is smuggling around Magical Britain._

“I accept your terms,” Harry decided.

He stood from his seat and left the room at once. When he met his friends outside, he couldn’t help but grin.

“Turns out he actually knew something useful,” Harry explained, “and all he wants is for us to help him get a divorce in exchange.”

“…what?” Hermione was understandably confused by this.

“Pureblood bulllshite,” Harry shrugged, “the details are beyond me, but apparently he’s rigged up some kind of contract which will divorce him from Bellatrix. He needs our help with the catch, which is that his divorce doesn’t go through as long as he remembers who Bellatrix is.”

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered, “can’t blame him, really, I’d want to forget about Bellatrix Lestrange too.”

“Moody, Hermione, Fleur,” Harry commanded, “obliviate him. Take _everything_ to do with his marriage, but past that, I don’t care how deep you go. Once you’re done, burn one of our one-way portkeys, send him to Bulgaria.”

It was one of the destinations most hostile to Voldemort that Harry knew of, and if necessary, he could always pass a message to Viktor to let him know that there was someone who needed to be dealt with.

* * *

Fleur threw herself into the efforts to understand what could possibly be used to predict the madness of Bellatrix Lestrange ( _or is it Bellatrix Black again?)._

With her ex-husband’s defection, it was clear that Voldemort had once again grown wrathful with his own old guard, and Death Eaters had been unseen in public for days. In their place were roving bands of Bellatrix’s personal mercenaries: the thugs and criminals collectively known as “Snatchers”, named for their proclivity for kidnapping.

The Order had ramped up their more public attacks, and the subsequent efforts of the Snatchers to enforce their particular brand of “law and order” were as ineffective as they were brutal. Fleur wondered if the tide was beginning to turn against Voldemort, if by causing sufficient dysfunction in the day-to-day lives of all the Magical citizens who were lucky enough not to be directly impacted by his goals, they might manage to finally turn their insurrection into a _revolution_.

Fleur was aware that some of the collaborators targeted were likely no more than cowardly bureaucrats who would rather keep their heads down than risk their own lives in the defense of others’, but she held no pity for any who served _le ministère de Vichy._

Finally, these efforts bore fruit after three of the Weasley brothers (Charlie, Fred, and George) had managed to set half of Knockturn Alley ablaze in a particularly daring attack, proceeding to publicly combat the Snatcher gang who had appeared to try and put out the fire. The next day, a shopkeep from Diagon Alley reported that Bellatrix Black had attempted to terrorize the community into revealing where the Weasleys had been hiding.

To be safe, the three Weasleys were moved to a new safe-house that night, but the opportunity became clear: it seemed that if the Snatchers were targeted directly, Bellatrix would appear afterwards. A brave Auror by the name of Savage had volunteered to serve as bait, offering to fall into the clutches of the Snatchers while wearing a number of objects enchanted with tracking charms.

Once he was taken to their base of operations, Harry planned to come down on them with a vengeance, making himself public enough that Bellatrix could not _possibly_ resist the opportunity to capture him.

When she arrived, the _rest_ of the Order, lying in wait, would spring the second trap on her.

Fleur almost found herself feeling eager for the ambush.

* * *

Harry tapped his fingers against his thigh, as he impatiently anticipated the activation of the tracking charms that Auror Savage carried. The Muggleborn Auror had made a show out of walking into a pub in Diagon Alley, and sure enough, within minutes, someone had reported him to the Snatchers, who arrived to sweep him away into the night.

After a few more moments, one of the enchanted maps that the Order had prepared flashed with light, and lines of ink began to draw themselves on its surface. The charmed object – paired to one of the tracking charms that Savage carried – revealed the outline of a small keep, located in a remote part of Scotland. The Snatchers’ base of operations.

“We’re moving!” Harry announced, and the forces of the Order launched into motion with practiced efficiency. Fleur – wearing his Cloak of Invisibility – would shadow behind him, Ron, Sirius, and Remus would take the other three points of the keep, and they would launch a _loud_ , unignorable assault.

The remainder of the Order forces – barring Hermione, who was embroiled in research into Goblin Law to try and find a loophole allowing them access to the Lestrange vault ( _and still seemed hesitant to take the field after the Dolohov ambush_ ), and Moody, who was recovering from the effects of a Gut-Twister Curse he’d been hit with – would encircle the outskirts of the keep, hidden under disillusionment charms until it came time to spring their trap.

After the familiar rush of apparition, Harry and Fleur appeared a few minutes away from the keep, which sat haggardly in the middle of a sparse forest. Without needing to communicate, Fleur brushed past him, and Harry could just make out her muttered detection charms, as she checked to see if the Snatchers had established any wards around their base.

“ _Non,_ ” she whispered, “it is clear.”

Drawing a breath, Harry focused on the keep in the distance. With another short hop of apparition, he appeared in front of it, and blew the doors apart with a reductor curse as soon as he arrived. As soon as Harry entered, a stunner glanced off his shields, and he cut down the Snatcher responsible with a quick cast of _Sectumsempra_.

 _Right, have to leave some alive,_ he reminded himself.

A Snatcher flew through the air and landed in a heap in front of Harry, announcing Ron’s breach of the rear flank, and somewhere in the building, a voice cried “that’s fucking Potter!” in what sounded like fear.

It turned out that there had been a little under a dozen of the thugs present in the building when Harry entered it, and after a few frantic minutes, six were dead, three unconscious, and the remaining two had escaped by disapparating away from the furious assault.

 _Just like we planned,_ Harry thought, _they’ll run the message to Bellatrix._

They’d even recovered Auror Savage relatively unharmed, as the Snatchers hadn’t had time to really start working him over. Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

Next, Harry waited. His nerves continued to grow more and more frayed over the next few minutes, as he half-dreaded, half-anticipated the arrival of Voldemort’s right-hand woman.

He waited.

He _waited._

 _Something’s wrong,_ Harry realized, _she’s not coming._

“We need to get back!” Harry called, “this doesn’t feel right!”

* * *

The scene they returned to was even more chaotic than the one they’d left.

12 Grimmauld Place was a ruin, its front doors completely destroyed, and evidence of a brutal magical battle littered from the entryway all the way to the second floor. Several walls had been destroyed, scorch marks covered parts of the floors and ceilings, and deep furrows had been cut into many pieces of the furniture strewn about the house.

 _Hermione,_ Fleur thought with a shock of fear, _no…_

Despite his recent injuries, it seemed that Alastor Moody had not gone down without a fight, but the discovery of his body sprawled at the top of a stairwell was a grim demonstration that they had underestimated their enemies.

_They tore his eye out._

Sirius made a choking noise when he found his house elf – a withered old thing that had been named Kreacher – decapitated in front of his bedroom. A foul-looking stain spread out in front of the elf’s body, painting the outline of two large, boot-wearing footprints.

“Fuck,” Sirius cursed, “whoever did this, they lived through a hit of Elf magic.”

A quick search of the premises failed to show any sign of Hermione, which was almost worse, somehow, than discovering that she had fallen.

 _After all,_ Fleur thought bitterly, _the dead cannot be tortured._

This was the most grievous defeat they had suffered since the war began. If someone had revealed the secret location of 12 Grimmauld Place, then the possibility that there was a spy within the Order ranks ( _it might very well be Snape, after all,_ Fleur wondered) could not be ignored.

“Go to ground,” Harry’s voice was torn, his anguish clear as he gave a command, “we’ve been compromised, it isn’t safe here any longer. Split up into groups as small as possible, and don’t try contacting anyone until you hear otherwise from me. Assume that nobody can be trusted.”

He met her eyes, and Fleur could tell that Harry was breaking, but somehow, he managed to barely hold himself together.

“Fleur, Ron,” Harry begged, “we’re leaving. We need to find out where they’ve taken her.”

“Aunt Muriel’s cottage,” Ron whispered, “that should be safe still.”

With no further conversation – _what words could be sufficient, really? –_ Ron pulled the two aside, and took Harry and Fleur to this new safe-house.

* * *

Harry hadn’t slept in three days.

He kept himself conscious through what potions were available at Ron’s Aunt’s house, copious amounts of caffeine, and attempts to cast _“Rennervate_ ” on himself as if the restoring charm would actually help energize his body.

While it paled in comparison to his worries about what Hermione was undergoing, Harry found himself regretting the loss of the resources they’d had available at 12 Grimmauld Place. He needed to spend every second he had _thinking_ about where Hermione could have been taken, and the interruptions to perform the most mundane tasks required to nourish his body (“remembering to eat”, for example) frustrated him.

Kreacher may have been a miserable little thing, but he hadn’t deserved to die. Harry missed him in his own way, and even found himself missing the elf’s _cooking_.

_Wait a minute…_

Harry hated to think of using one of his friends like this, but he suddenly recalled that there was someone who would be extremely eager to assist him.

“Dobby!” Harry called into the otherwise-empty room.

Sure enough, almost immediately afterwards, the eager little elf appeared with a _crack_.

“Master Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby actually _saluted_ him, he was equally as zealous about his role as a spy for the Order at Hogwarts, “what can Dobby be doing for you, sir?”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, Dobby,” Harry sighed, “but, if it’s alright with you… I could use your help.”

“How can Dobby help the great Harry Potter?” Dobby’s eyes sparkled with joy.

“I’m… I need a real meal, if you don’t mind,” Harry tamped down on his own internal protests about ordering his friend to serve him.

“Dobby will do this!” the elf, of course, was absolutely _thrilled_ to receive this request.

Sure enough, after minutes, Dobby reappeared with a bowl of hearty stew and a tall glass of dark ale. Harry thanked him profusely, even as his stomach rumbled at the thought of something more filling than the mediocre sandwiches he’d been slapping together for “meals” lately.

“Your friend is rather enthusiastic, isn’t he?” Fleur spoke as she entered his room.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, “Dobby’s great like that.”

“I tried to convince him to put a sleeping potion in your beer,” Fleur huffed, “but he would not listen to me. Even if he called me ‘Master Harry’s flower’, which was _tr_ _ès adorable.”_

“I’ll sleep when I run out of things to think about,” Harry grumbled, “they took her, Fleur. Hermione is suffering under the hands of Bellatrix somewhere, and I can’t help her.”

“Not yet,” Fleur whispered, as she closed the distance between them, “but we _will_ discover where she has been taken. Then, we will rescue her. But you cannot think properly on an empty stomach, and you certainly cannot plan effectively without rest. We have talked of this before, ‘Arry.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry sighed deeply, but forced himself to eat his supper under Fleur’s watchful eye, and had to admit that with a full stomach, he felt the way that exhaustion permeated every part of himself.

“Now, _mon guerrier,_ ” Fleur ran her fingers through his hair, “you must rest.”

He was already in his pajamas anyways, so Harry begrudgingly accepted the necessity of sleep, and wandered towards the small bed in the corner of the room. He heard a rustling sound behind him, and when he turned to lay down, was surprised to see that Fleur had somehow managed to change into her own nightgown.

“I will ensure that you do not crawl out of bed as soon as I say goodnight,” Fleur teased, “I know you too well.”

“You do,” Harry chuckled, tossing his glasses onto the bedside dresser, as Fleur put out the lights and crawled into bed beside him.

This was becoming something of a habit between the two of them.

* * *

When Harry and Fleur woke up and left his bedroom, Ron was already awake and in the kitchen. He looked up at the two of them, and something almost like a sad smirk crossed his features for a moment, but he didn’t comment or imply anything, thankfully.

On some level, Harry was aware that whatever the connection between Fleur and himself might be called, it was no longer purely “friendship”. While the first couple times they’d shared a bed might have been explained away by this, the fact that it had become more common than not was obviously something more intimate than that.

He was _also_ well aware that the middle of a war was absolutely no time to think about his feelings, let alone to start conversations which would inevitably go along the lines of “…so, I think I _like_ ‘like you’, as more than friends?”

After all, Harry loved Ron like a brother, but he couldn’t really imagine cuddling Ron to fall asleep.

 _“Like a brother”, heh,_ a fresh wave of sadness passed over Harry, _we are kind of like a weird little family, aren’t we? But we’re missing one._

While he sipped his coffee (Dobby was a godsend, truly), Harry turned his thoughts back to trying to locate Hermione. As if it took time for his brain to catch up to his own ideas, he was struck by a sudden realization which seemed so _obvious_ that he didn’t know how he hadn’t caught it before.

“Family!” Harry shouted, leaping up from the kitchen table, he was so astounded.

“Did you not sleep enough?” Fleur quirked an eyebrow at him.

“No, that’s… that’s what I missed,” Harry began to explain, “Ron, how do Pureblood houses work? I mean, literal houses, how do the wards work on them?”

“Er,” Ron frowned, “well, it’s different for each family, but they’re almost always blood wards, reinforced by generations of the same family putting down enchantments.”

“How does marriage affect them?”

“I mean, it might be a bit sexist,” Ron shrugged – _he picked something up from Hermione after all –_ before continuing, “it’s usually tied to the family name. Daughters from one house wind up becoming members of the house they marry into, most times.”

“Fuck!” Harry cursed, “that’s what I missed! Fucking… dammit, so stupid.”

“What did you miss?” Fleur looked concerned.

“When Lestrange divorced Bellatrix,” Harry realized, “she became a _Black_ again. Our base was in the Black family home. Fuck!”

“Oh, Merlin,” Ron swore, “we got bloody played!”

“ _Merde,_ I should have noticed that,” Fleur spoke regretfully, “zat was my failing. I did not think to picture Bellatrix Lestrange as a person who thinks of their family.”

“She is, though,” Harry realized, “when Snape told us about how he swore the Unbreakable Vow to protect Malfoy? Lestrange was there as a witness, it was his ploy to get back into the Dark Lord’s trust, yeah?”

_That’s where she is!_

“Dobby!” Harry cried, urgently.

“Dobby is here!” the elf spoke from directly beside him, almost making Harry jump.

“I have a mission for you,” Harry knelt down, so that he was eye-level with Dobby, “I’m not going to force you to do this if you don’t want to, but I need your help, if you’re willing.”

“Of course Dobby will help Harry Potter!” he seemed aghast at the _suggestion_ that he may not be willing, “what can Dobby do?”

“I need you,” Harry swallowed, collecting his thoughts, “to go back to the home of your old masters. The Malfoys. I want you to find out if Bellatrix Black is in that house.”

Dobby looked frightened for a moment, but nodded enthusiastically. As he raised his fingers to snap, Harry interjected, telling his friend to wait.

“Don’t get caught, Dobby,” Harry spoke seriously, “this is dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt, and it’s important that nobody notices you.”

“Dobby will be sneaky!”

“I trust that you will be,” Harry continued, “but… I’d also request that you carry my Cloak of Invisibility while you’re there. I’m not giving it to you, of course,” Harry knew better than to _suggest_ that he might intend to ‘free’ Dobby in such a fashion, as bizarre as it was, “but I want you to drape it over yourself. You understand, right?”

“Dobby understands,” the elf confirmed, and his exuberance gave way to an expression which passed as ‘solemn’ for him, “Dobby will **not** be found.”

After he retrieved this item ( _again, I can’t just hand it to him,_ Harry knew), Dobby disappeared from sight as he threw it over his tiny form, then – presumably – disappeared from the safe house.

“Get ready to go,” Harry told Ron and Fleur, “if I’m right about this, we’re hitting them as soon as we find out.”

Minutes later, Dobby reappeared in the middle of the kitchen as he tossed the cloak aside (which made Ron nearly jump into the ceiling), bouncing from foot to foot where he stood.

“Master Harry!” Dobby cried, “old Mistress Narcissa is being at the Malfoy Manor, and also her nasty sister, the Black Bellatrix! But also,” Dobby looked up at Harry with his huge, watery eyes, “Harry Potter’s friend Hermione is being in the basement. The Bellatrix has her in chains, she does, but friend Hermione is alive.”

_She’s alive._

Harry’s heart soared with hope for the first time in days.

“We’re going,” Harry ordered, “right now.”

* * *

The three of them crept along the outskirts of Malfoy Manor, which Fleur had informed him was _heavily_ warded, locked down with multiple layers anti-apparition jinxes and detection charms around the border of the estate.

“I can open _un portail_ ,” Fleur confirmed, “it will allow you to get in without being noticed, but I must remain here to keep it open. Once the window closes, the alarm spells will trigger.”

“Ron, you up to this?”

“Fuckin’ course I am, mate,” Ron confirmed, “they’ve got ‘Mione.”

“Right, with me,” Harry answered, slipping the Cloak of Invisibility over his shoulders.

“Harry,” Ron whispered as they slipped through the gap which Fleur opened, the Weasley using a disillusionment charm to hide himself, “I’ll be the bait on this one, yeah?”

“Ron,” Harry protested, “it’s fucking _Bellatrix_ we’re dealing with. The Dark Lord’s right hand. You can’t expect to duel her.”

“I don’t expect to,” Ron answered, “I expect _you’ll_ handle her. The basement’s on the south-west side over there, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Once you’ve got inside the house,” Ron strategized, “I’m going to blow that wall open. Make a hell of an entrance, yeah?”

“Give me five minutes to get in position,” Harry confirmed, “and stay safe, mate.”

“You too.”

Harry pulled the cloak entirely over himself, gripping his wand tightly. He carefully slipped through an open window ( _doors mysteriously opening and closing themselves is too easy to notice_ ), and prowled through the unfamiliar Malfoy residence. He spotted a set of stairs descending into what must have been the basement, and cautiously lowered himself down them.

The dingy rooms in front of Harry didn’t quite _bustle_ with activity, but there were five Snatchers he could see, and a number of closed doors which might hold more enemies. It seemed that the Malfoy “basement” was really more of a “dungeon” from how it was laid out; this was certainly not the first time that they’d kept prisoners here.

Ron appeared just on time, as the wall on the far side of the room exploded, caving inwards under a powerful use of _bombarda_. Ron leapt through the opening immediately, and Harry had to crush his instincts to leap into action to defend his friend, knowing that his own stealth was paramount to their success.

One of the Snatchers had fallen under the rubble created by Ron’s entrance, and he dispatched two of the others quickly, but the fourth was quick to react, casting a curse that struck Ron with a bolt of purple lightning. His friend grunted in pain, but slashed his wand in response, dropping the fourth.

“Avad-“ the fifth Snatcher started, beginning the incantation for the Killing Curse slowly and with _intent,_ and Harry’s heart dropped. _No_!

Luckily, Ron had learned the value of speed, and the severing charm that he cast quickly and silently opened the Snatcher’s throat in a spray of blood. The man collapsed to the floor, choking and grabbing at his neck before finally going still.

Harry heard footsteps pounding down the stairs behind him, and took position to the side of the doorway.

“ _Crucio!”_ a cruel voice cried from the stairs, and Ron dropped to the floor, screaming in agony. His gold mask clattered to the floor, dislodged by his thrashing.

“Well, lookie here,” a voice carrying such malicious _glee_ could only belong to Bellatrix, “a wittle Weasley! You’re eager to join your friends, are you? _Crucio!_ ”

Ron’s screams redoubled, and Harry grit his teeth, his heart pounding.

 _No mistakes,_ he promised himself, _no repeating my fuck-ups with Dolohov. Don’t give her an opening, don’t give her the chance to defend herself._

Bellatrix’s steps had slowed to an agonizing crawl, the steady _clack, clack, clack_ of her heels seeming to take hours as she walked into the basement.

_I will destroy you._

She walked past Harry, and he held his breath, pushed his tongue against his teeth. He clenched his wand tightly.

“We’re going to have fun,” Bellatrix spoke, as she finally passed by him.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” Harry shouted as he flung the Cloak of Invisibility aside. The jet of sickly green light took her in the back, and she fell to the floor, dead.

“You can… huh.” Ron seemed surprised as he rose unsteadily to his feet, but didn’t waste any time expressing whatever he thought about this turn of events.

The pair quickly made their way into the hallway which contained several closed doors, quickly casting _alohomora_ on the first of these heavy, iron-bound dungeon doors. Behind that very first door, sobbing and wrapped in chains, Hermione sat tied to a chair.

“’Mione!” Ron cried, and she gasped in a raw, wordless way when she caught sight of her rescuers.

“There’s at least, at least two other people down here,” Hermione stammered, and Harry couldn’t believe that his friend’s first action was to try and protect others. _She’s really a hero,_ he thought. Ron and him quickly cut her loose, and Hermione rose to her feet, shaky, in pain, but unbroken.

The second prisoner was a small, gnarled-looking one: a Goblin, and though Harry wasn’t quite certain (it was hard to tell beneath the bruises marring his face), Harry thought that it was Griphook, the very first of his race that he’d ever met.

The _third_ prisoner came as a shock to see alive, but Harry was absolutely thrilled to find out that she had survived. Luna Lovegood sat tied to a chair, even more tightly bound than Hermione had been.

“Hullo, Harry,” Luna spoke, “it’s good to see you.”

“Ron, get these three to safety,” Harry commanded, “we can’t dally, make sure they get to Fleur.”

“You aren’t coming?” Ron questioned, as he busied himself freeing Luna from her bindings, while Hermione cut Griphook loose.

“I’ve got one more thing to take care of,” Harry said, flipping the Cloak of Invisibility back over his head, “won’t take long.”

* * *

Silently and undetectably, Harry snuck back up the stars, into the Malfoy Manor ground floor. He spotted the person he was looking for almost immediately, noticing Narcissa Malfoy cowering at the top of a flight of stairs, pointing her wand about in random directions.

From the foot of the stairs, Harry hit her with a silent cast of _depulso,_ the banishing charm throwing her back against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of her. He rushed up the stairs, kicking her wand aside before she could retrieve it, before he flung the Cloak off and revealed himself.

“P-P-Potter?” the Malfoy woman stammered, her eyes wide with shock and fear.

“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry answered, “I’d hoped to find your husband. Mind telling me where he’s hiding?”

“Lucius?” she whimpered, “he’s… he’s dead, Potter.”

_Hmm?_

“Oh?” Harry shrugged, “news to me. How’d that happen?”

“The Dark Lord, he,” she sobbed, “he killed him. Punishment for his failures, he said.”

_Well, that’s one loose end we don’t have to handle._

“And yet, your home is a nice little hideout for Death Eaters all the same,” Harry muttered, “you’re a gracious hostess, aren’t you?”

“Mother!” a familiar voice cried out.

 _It can’t be…_ Harry thought, as he whirled to face the voice, where, sure enough, Draco Malfoy stood.

 _Well, “stood” isn’t quite right._ The Malfoy son sat in a wheelchair, one of _Muggle_ manufacture, if Harry had the right of it.

“Malfoy,” Harry spoke, displeased, “you should be dead.”

“Potter, don’t!” Malfoy sounded like he was pleading, “it wasn’t her choice, the Death Eaters forced their way in!”

“Death Eaters already lived here,” Harry corrected him, pointing his wand at Malfoy. The boy’s face fell into an expression of terror, and his arms jerked as he tried to wheel himself backwards, but only succeeded at tipping himself over, crashing awkwardly to the floor.

_Pathetic._

“Ava-“ Harry began, only to be interrupted by a blur of motion to the side. He stepped back immediately to handle the threat, but it turned out that Narcissa Malfoy had not leapt towards _him._ She’d instead lunged towards her son, putting herself between Harry’s wand and Malfoy.

“Not my son!” she begged, “don’t take my son!”

“Potter!” Draco yelped from the floor, “you can kill me, but my mother had nothing to do with it, I swear.”

“My boy,” Narcissa whined.

 _Isn’t this touching,_ Harry thought darkly.

“Mother, we feared that this day would come,” he heard Malfoy mutter softly, “you can’t die for me, it won’t save me. Let it happen. I’m sorry.”

“Your life is not yet forfeit,” Harry agreed, “step aside.”

Narcissa sobbed, and only clutched Draco tighter.

 _Well, if you insist,_ Harry thought, _I’ll destroy you too._

As he prepared to speak the Killing Curse once again, Harry noticed that Malfoy was _crying_ , but he seemed to be trying to soothe his mother’s sobs, petting her hair and muttering something to her.

Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach as he realized what he’d just been about to do. Who he’d been about to become.

_My own mother once stood where Narcissa does now._

A sour taste rose at the back of his mouth.

“Potter,” a dark, languid voice spoke from behind him, and Harry whirled to face it, and was surprised to see – of all people – Severus Snape, who stood calmly with his palms raised in a placating gesture.

“Snape,” Harry answered, “I thought that Malfoy was dead. Explain.”

“Yes, you came very close to killing him,” Snape drawled, “it was only by happenstance that I was nearby, and that I am a particular expert in the necessary counter-curses for the attack you made.”

“Why are you here?”

“Narcissa is in possession of a charmed ring I created,” Snape continued, sounding almost placating, “which signals me, personally. It was meant to be used when she had the opportunity to escape her sister, which I see you have provided.”

“The curse I used, on Malfoy,” Harry snapped, “how did you know how to counteract it? Its incantation is a secret.”

“I _invented_ it, Potter!” Snape growled, “I had never expected it to fall into your hands, of all places!”

“ _You’re_ the Half-Blood Prince!?” Harry was shocked.

“Indeed!” it was the most emotion Snape had ever shown, “my mother was of House Prince, but my father was a Muggle!”

Pieces fell into place in Harry’s mind, and his arm sagged to his side, his wand falling away from Snape.

“I arrived just in time, it seems,” Snape muttered, “I fear that you were about to make a grave mistake.”

“Was I?” Harry asked coldly, even if part of him might have agreed with Snape. “I’ll require that ring you gave her, Snape. I’ll need to call on you in the near future.”

“…fine, Potter,” Snape grumbled, as he walked up the stairs, passing by Harry to speak to the two Malfoys who still clung to each other.

A moment later, Snape presented Harry with a small, silver ring, instructing him to tap upon it thrice with his wand to summon him.

“Brilliant,” Harry drawled, his gaze falling on the Malfoys once again. “Wherever you were planning on taking these two, be judicious about it. If I ever see Draco again, I _will_ kill him.”

“Very well,” Snape frowned, “is there anything else, Potter?”

“There’s a dead Death Eater and a few Snatchers in the basement,” Harry shrugged, as he turned to walk away, “you should probably deal with that.”

* * *

Fleur had noticed something was wrong shortly after they returned to their recent hide-out. Despite the triumph of retrieving Hermione (and his friend Luna as well), something about Harry seemed utterly defeated.

True, he smiled and laughed along with Ron when the Weasley exuberantly welcomed Hermione, Luna, and Griphook to his “Aunt Muriel’s lovely abode” (the third rescuee had taken some convincing to return to a safe house rather than Gringotts), but the smile on Harry’s face had not reached his eyes.

Even when they’d managed to negotiate a means of breaching the Lestrange vault to retrieve and destroy the Dark Lord’s fifth Horcrux (apparently, Fleur still counted as a Gringotts employee, as far as the Goblins were concerned), Harry seemed more as if he were tired, rather than pleased to have won this victory.

When they’d finally put the rescued prisoners to bed, Fleur followed Harry to his room, as she was certain that there was something weighing on him.

“What is wrong?” Fleur demanded, as soon as they shut the door, “I can tell something is bothering you, _mon chevalier_ , you do not seem happy with your victory.”

“I realized something,” Harry sighed, “something… awful.”

“What is it?” Fleur sat beside him, her voice serious, “you can tell me.”

Harry looked into her eyes, and for the first time, Fleur thought that she could see a tinge of hopelessness in his gaze.

“There aren’t two Horcruxes left,” Harry’s voice wobbled, “there’s three.”

That was an unsettling discovery, to be sure, but Fleur could not understand why it had shaken Harry so badly.

“So, we destroy three instead of two, then,” she reassured him, “we have found the fifth, and once we discover the sixth, we will be ever closer to victory.”

“That’s not too hard,” Harry sighed, “with what I’ve figured out… well, the sixth has got to be the snake that he keeps with him.”

“ _Bon!_ ” Fleur grew more confused, “this is fantastic, Harry, what is bothering you about that?”

“The seventh,” Harry’s shoulders shook with a sob that he supressed, “he can put them inside living things, Fleur. The seventh is _me_.”

Fleur’s heart broke.

_The connection that Harry has to the Dark Lord, the glimpses he’d receive of his mind… oh, no._

“We will find a way,” she promised, “we will remove it from you, you will not have to suffer from him any longer.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Harry made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, “I think… I think he’s always been part of me, and if this keeps up much longer…”

He made a sound which was unambiguously one of sorrow.

“Unless I end this soon,” Harry choked, “I think I’m going to turn into him.”

“ _Non,_ ” Fleur wrapped her arms around Harry, pulling him tight against her, “this cannot be true. You are nothing like him.”

“I am,” Harry muttered, “earlier today… I was about to use the Killing Curse on someone not because they were a threat, but because I _wanted_ to. That’s what makes him so dangerous, isn’t it? You have to desire to see someone destroyed to use it, and that’s how he sees everything that isn’t him.”

“It is war, Harry,” Fleur whispered, “people die. This does not make you a monster.”

“That’s just it,” Harry’s voice grew even more despondent, “people die, yeah? If we’re going to defeat him… I won’t be alive to see it. I _can’t_ be, because he’d just come back if I was still here.”

_No. No, no, no._

“We will find a way,” Fleur sobbed, “we’ll figure it out, Harry, there has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Harry sighed defeatedly, “and… maybe it’s for the best. It’s better that we both die, rather than me becoming the next _him_ , after everything.”

Fleur grabbed Harry’s face with both hands, and desperately pushed her lips into his. It was an impulsive, devastated decision, but one that she would never regret. There was nothing chaste about this gesture, but neither was it an action born of lust.

“I would not want to live if you died,” Fleur admitted, after she ended the kiss, “we **will** find another way.”

Harry didn’t reply, instead just pressing his face into her shoulder, pulling her more tightly into their embrace.

She felt hot tears run down her skin. Some were from her own eyes.

* * *

Days later, on a Friday afternoon, Harry put his final plan into motion.

He’d sent messages that he’d hoped would find the people he trusted, rueing the loss of 12 Grimmauld as a base of operations all over again. Sitting at the back of a pub in Diagon Alley, under heavy disguise, Harry sent out his final message, tapping his wand against the ring that Snape had created.

It took a few moments for the double-agent to arrive, and Harry kept his wand trained on the Hogwarts Headmaster as he approached the table and sat down hesitantly.

“We’re moving,” Harry grunted, keeping his instructions brief, “today is going to be an important one. Prepare yourself, and anyone that you’ve been in contact with.”

“You…” Snape glanced around, but the pub was entirely empty (and the proprietor was an Order sympathizer, luckily), “you found the fifth, then?”

“And more,” Harry didn’t trust Snape enough to reveal the harrowing realization that he’d recently come to, “we’re not drawing this out. In fifteen minutes, we’re hitting the Ministry, and after that, I’m going to Hogwarts.”

Snape hissed in a breath.

“It is not as friendly a place as you might hope,” Snape admitted, “I do what I can to dull their impact, but his loyalists hold power within Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” Harry knew, “Carrow’s the Assistant Headmaster, right?”

“Just so,” Snape sighed, “shall I dispose of him?”

“Not yet,” Harry tapped his fingers against his wand idly under the table, “I’m hoping you get the call to respond to the assault on the Ministry. If you can distract the Dark Lord, buy as much time as possible to keep him away from Hogwarts, you’ll be providing the greatest service that I could hope for.”

Snape was silent for a few moments after this command, staring at Harry’s eyes intensely. Despite the disguise that Harry wore, his own eye colour had been difficult to hide, so he knew that Snape could recognize his gaze.

“Very well,” Snape said sadly – for some reason – after his moment of contemplation, “I wish you good fortune, Potter. I expect that this is the last time we’ll speak, you and I.”

“I expect so,” Harry admitted, “good luck, Severus.”

* * *

Harry apparated near the Ministry of Magic, then donned the Cloak of Invisibility.

Luna’s rescue had been miraculous for more than one reason: she’d revealed the legends of the “Deathly Hallows”, one of which had already been under his nose for the entire time that he’d been a wizard. The second – the Resurrection Stone – was similarly unmistakable to Harry; it could be nothing other than the ring which Dumbledore had worn constantly, even after the curse put on it had started the end for him. Dumbledore had been buried wearing the ring, so its location was Harry’s next stop.

The third, the Elder Wand? Well, Harry started to understand why Dumbledore had been so insistent on training Harry until he could defeat the ancient wizard in a duel.

Riddle surely thought that _he_ was the master of this wand, an oversight which provided one of the few weaknesses that Harry had ever found in his oldest foe. _I’m the only other unforeseen weakness he has,_ Harry knew.

He made his way through the Ministry halls stealthily, undetectable to all but the most advanced scrying charms. Within minutes, Harry slipped through a doorway leading to the Minister’s office, a man named Pius Thicknesse who’d been appointed early into Tom Riddle’s conquest of Magical Britain. Passing by a secretary’s desk, Harry flung the door open, training his wand on the man inside.

The Minister sat at his desk as still as a statue, his gaze blank, not even reacting to his door seeming to open itself. _Imperiused,_ Harry realized, tipping the door shut behind himself. _Well, at least that proves he’s susceptible to it._

“ _Imperio,_ ” Harry whispered, wrenching control of the Minister’s mind away from Riddle and into his own hands. The Minster turned to face him, his expression slack and mindless, as Harry began to give him the orders he’d need.

“In half an hour, announce a press conference,” Harry ordered, “reveal that you have been under the Imperius Curse, and describe the identities of any Ministry officials who have collaborated with Voldemort that you are aware of.”

 _I’m on a timer now,_ Harry reminded himself, _the taboo would’ve just been set off._

“Finally, declare war on Voldemort and his Death Eaters,” Harry finished, “then forget that you ever received these commands.”

He swept his cloak back around himself as he left the Minister’s office, only to catch sight of someone unexpected: Percy Weasley, staring at the Minister’s door opening under Harry’s invisible hand.

“Show yourself!” Percy shouted, preparing to draw his wand, only to be thrown back by Harry’s silent banishing charm.

“Percy,” Harry spoke, lowering his hood, “didn’t realize that you became a collaborator.”

“H-Harry?” Percy seemed shocked to see him appear, “you need to go!”

“I wasn’t planning on staying long,” Harry pondered how to deal with Percy.

“No, you need to leave, now!” Percy glanced behind him, “Death Eaters are coming! Go!”

Percy turned his back on Harry as he scrambled to his feet, running to the door and peering around it.

“Come on,” Percy whispered, “they aren’t here yet.”

Harry didn’t know if he trusted the prodigal Weasley son to actually guide him to safety, but exited the office behind him anyways. After they took a couple turns through the winding halls of the Ministry, they reached a T-shaped junction. Percy shakily pointed his hand towards the end of the hallway.

“That’ll lead you to the back entrance, where-“

“You there!” A voice bellowed, as not one, but _three_ Death Eaters rounded the corner at the opposite end of the hall. “Stop!”

“That’s fucking Potter!” one of them cried, as Harry caught sight of Walden Macnair, who was wearing the magical eye that Alastor Moody once had.

_Fuck, he can see me._

“Go!” Percy cried, shoving Harry behind himself, and Harry did not look back as he fled.

“From the ashes!” he heard Percy cry, explosions and flames bursting into life as the Weasley attempted to buy him some time. When Harry reached the end of hall and rounded its corner, he heard a cruel voice cast the Killing Curse, and the sound of Percy’s body hitting the floor.

_Another name on the list of the fallen._

If Percy’s last stand had not been sufficient evidence of his true loyalties, the fact that his instructions were accurate was truth: within moments, Harry found himself bursting outdoors, past the anti-apparition wards covering the Ministry’s grounds, and he wasted no time disapparating towards his next destination.

* * *

It was nearly as trivial for Harry to gain entry into Hogwarts with the aid of Dobby’s house-elf magic to get him past the wards. After performing the grim, but necessary task of grave-robbery, Harry walked through the front entrance one last time, hardly able to believe how much had changed since he’d last been here.

He quickly made his way to the Gryffindor common room, and the scene he found within caused his heart to sink. While it seemed that most of his friends who’d been impelled to return to school were _alive_ , at least, every face he recognized looked drawn, haunted.

When he whipped the Cloak of Invisibility off, he was pleased to see that the initial reaction from his fellow Gryffindors was to immediately train their wands on him, before realization and recognition overtook them.

“Harry!” Seamus cried, “how… how are you here?”

“Hey, Seamus,” Harry greeted him, “been a bit. How’re you holding up?”

“Uh, not… not great, Harry,” the boy stammered, “it’s not good here. I thought Snape was bad enough, but Carrow’s even worse, and he’s… he’s got Neville, right now.”

“Take me there,” Harry commanded, and was frustrated by how Seamus just gaped in surprise at him. “Show me where Carrow’s holding him.”

His friend guided him through the halls of Hogwarts, stopping outside an office that Harry didn’t really remember. He tried the door handle, and found it to be unlocked. Harry gestured for Seamus to stay behind, then cast a silencing charm on the door, and slipped his cloak back on.

“…you’re already next, boy!” Harry heard a scratchy-sounding voice in the middle of a rant, “just tell us where Potter might be hiding, and we’ll make it quick!”

“N-never!” Neville’s voice was familiar, though Harry didn’t know if he’d heard his friend in that much pain before, “I don’t even know where he is!”

_Right here, Neville._

“It’s surprising,” the man who must have been Amycus Carrow continued as Harry slowly walked to the back of the room, where Neville was tied against a post, “we thought that the death of your _beloved_ grandmother would have loosened your lips, and yet you keep being stubborn. For what? I will drag whatever you know out of you, and then I’ll kill you, that’s already certain. You’re just dragging this out, and it’s not like some hero is going to come save you, idiot child.”

_Well, you’re right about half of that, I figure._

“Avada Kedavra!” Harry announced his presence, and the Death Eater died in a flash of green.

“W-who?” Neville choked out, only to gasp when Harry drew his hood back.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Harry drawled, “heard you needed some help.”

“How… you cast the Killing Curse?” Neville seemed almost more shocked by that than by the torture he’d been under.

“It’s war, Neville,” Harry shrugged, as he freed his friend from his bindings, “but you knew that. Thanks for holding out for me.”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Neville gasped, “restarted the D.A. and everything, you’ve got friends here, Harry, we can hide you from-“

“There’s no hiding,” Harry corrected him, “I’m here to take Hogwarts back. Who else is there that needs to go down?”

“What?”

“Collaborators,” Harry answered, “friends of the Death Eaters.”

“W-well, there’s Snape,” Neville stammered, “and Crabbe actually took the mark, so, them two. Goyle’s friendly with Crabbe, of course, and Parkinson and Bulstrode have happily turned people over to Carrow, but Harry…”

“But?” Harry wondered.

“I, uh,” Neville glanced at his feet, where Carrow’s body lay crumpled, “I don’t know if that means they deserve to die.”

 _I’ll decide that,_ Harry thought.

“We’ll find out,” Harry answered, “I’m going to go evict the Slytherins now. You might want to spread the message that there’s a fight coming, anyone who doesn’t have the nerve to go to battle will want to flee Hogwarts while they have the chance.”

* * *

Fleur waited behind a pillar in the entrance of Gringotts.

While the Goblins, as a rule, were reticent to become involved in matters of Wizards, it seemed that the Death Eaters had begun to push their luck after the death of Bellatrix Black. Undoubtedly desperate to reobtain the Horcrux which their Dark Lord had hidden in a vault, Tiberus Travers had been dispatched to intimidate the bank into permitting him access, hiding behind the non-aggression pact that the Goblins had sworn with the Dark Lord, the de facto ruler of Magical Britain.

“Griphook!” the man bellowed as he made his entrance, “I’m pleased to see you looking so well! You understand, of course, that Bellatrix acted without sanction, she always was a loose cannon, wasn’t she?”

“Travers,” the Goblin replied, “how unpleasant to see you.”

“Ah, don’t be like that, old chum,” the Death Eater chuckled, “despite our recent, hmm, disagreements, shall we say, I am sure that we can continue a most profitable arrangement, yes?”

Fleur stepped out from her hiding spot, quickly casting _expelliarmus_ at the Death Eater. His wand flew free of his robes, and just as rapidly, two Goblin guards surged forward, wrapping his arms in iron grips and forcing the man to his knees.

“Griphook!” Travers screamed, “what is this!? You cannot harm me, you have sworn oaths!”

It was technically true. As a sworn employee of Gringotts, Fleur could not even act to injure the man within the halls of Gringotts, lest she suffer magical repercussions.

“I haven’t,” Hermione announced, stepping out of her own hiding place.

Despite the lasting wounds (both visible and not) that she’d suffered from Bellatrix, Hermione had proved her mettle by volunteering for this particular mission. Without any further spectacle or drama, Hermione flicked her wand, and Traver’s head suddenly spun to face the opposite direction, his neck snapping loudly.

The two Goblin guards dropped the body, which collapsed to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

“Take the body,” Griphook commanded, “feed it to the hounds. Now, Miss Delacour,” he turned to her with a toothy grin, “I believe that you are due to perform an annual inventory of the Lestrange vault, are you not?”

* * *

Harry blew up the door to the Slytherin dorms, calmly strolling through the chaos that resulted. The gathered students inside screamed, or ran around in confusion, except for a few exceptions: Vincent Crabbe had his wand drawn, scowling at the doorway as he started to intone a curse.

 _Bombarda,_ Harry thought, although this time his target was not a doorway, but Crabbe’s head.

The Death Eater disappeared under a storm of magic, and the way that his innards splattered on the Slytherins nearby prompted an entirely new round of screams.

Harry removed his cloak, and announced his presence with authority.

“Get out,” he ordered, “I don’t care where you go, but every Slytherin has ten minutes to remove themselves from the grounds of Hogwarts.”

“That’s Potter!” he heard Pansy Parkinson shriek, “get him!”

He turned to point his wand at her.

“ _Crucio,_ ” he spoke calmly, and Parkinson dropped to her knees, howling in pain. 

“This is not up for argument,” Harry continued, speaking loudly over Parkinson’s screams, “if anyone wants to test themselves against me, I’ll kill you. If I catch sight of a single one of you lingering in these halls, I’ll kill you.”

Harry raised his wand, breaking the curse, and leaving Parkinson sobbing face-down on the floor. He turned, stomping out of the dorms, trusting that this demonstration was sufficient.

* * *

Fleur felt a growing sense of dread as she entered Hogwarts alongside Dobby, which didn’t improve when the house elf looked at her with frightened eyes, then disappeared without any of his typically exuberant comments, off to retrieve more of Harry’s allies.

She found the man himself slouched in a seat in the dining hall, reclined in the Headmaster’s chair at the head of the table, the sword of Gryffindor bared over his knees. Parts of Harry were hidden by his Cloak of Invisibility, which he wore as if it were armour.

“Hey, Fleur,” Harry sounded weary already, despite the fact that the battle hadn’t even begun yet, “we’re really doing it, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Fleur murmured, reaching into a Gringotts bag to retrieve the fourth Horcrux (a tiara belonging to Rowena Ravenclaw, as it turned out). As she approached Harry, she couldn’t help but be left with the impression that she was presenting a gift to a king, in these strange circumstances.

In the background, Fleur heard a growing murmur, as more of Harry’s allies were being brought to the field of battle. She heard the Weasley family excitedly greeting one another, the smooth, deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a dozen more that she recognized.

 _This is really it,_ she knew, _our last battle._

Harry looked at the Horcrux impassively for a moment, then brought the sword crashing down upon it. With a shriek and a wisp of black smoke, the fourth Horcrux was destroyed. Harry grunted in pain, one of his hands flying to his forehead.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “if I wasn’t convinced enough already…”

 _None of the others inspired this reaction,_ Fleur thought, _is it because this object contained more of the Dark Lord’s soul?_

“We have some time, _mon prince,”_ Fleur spoke sadly, “is there anything you might want to do?”

“He’ll be here in minutes,” Harry looked to her, and she saw the absence of any real emotion in his eyes, “we should set traps. It might buy some time.”

 _He intends to die today,_ Fleur knew, and it wrenched her heart to think this.

* * *

The battle began suddenly, with an enormous _boom_ ing sound echoing through the halls of Hogwarts as the wards and charms protecting it were breached. Harry looked around at all the people who’d come to fight alongside him, and though he felt like he should have been proud to witness the strength of the Light, instead, all he could see were how many were willing to give their lives up with him.

Voldemort also had his followers, their numbers far larger than Harry would have wished to see, despite the attempts by the Order to whittle away at them. Most of his army was composed of various thugs, a motely assemblage of werewolves, and other various Magical Beings who had found his cause appealing.

A Giant had hurled a boulder through the gates of the dining hall, and with that, the last battle of the Second Wizarding War began.

The first exchange of spells had been withering, with casualties on both sides. Harry tried his best to put his regrets aside when he saw Colin Creevy fall to a Snatcher’s curse, striking the boy’s killer down in turn. Voldemort himself had yet to appear, lingering somewhere behind his shock-troopers, but Harry knew that it was only a matter of time.

Harry lost track of individual events in the chaos of the fighting, only aware of the unrelenting tempo of curses, counter-curses, and screams around him.

After what felt like hours, his enemy finally appeared. Voldemort stepped into the hall, and with almost casual ease, flung the green bolt of a Killing Curse towards Harry. Harry was fortunate enough to side-step the attack, but the second _Avada Kedavra_ from Voldemort’s wand struck down Ernie MacMillan mere feet from Harry.

“Potter!” the Dark Lord screamed, “I’ve come to end you!”

 _You’ve come to end yourself, Tom,_ Harry thought, as he sent a Killing Curse of his own towards his foe. Riddle’s mastery of magic was undeniable, as he shifted and blurred where he stood, some sort of protective charm serving to move him out of the way of Harry’s attack.

Harry felt as if the world grew sharper, somehow, his senses clearer and every detail filling his mind. The passage of time seemed to slow to a crawl, every single event around him permeating his thoughts all at once.

Harry heard Ron scream, as his friend fell to the floor with a pale face, the great serpent Nagini releasing his arm as it turned its fangs towards its next target. Ron was quick to respond, throwing fire towards the snake, but his aim was off. Harry’s friend seemed to steel himself, then severed his own arm, preventing the serpent’s venom from reaching his heart.

Behind Riddle, Severus Snape stood with his face exposed, his Death Eater mask cast aside somewhere. The man wasn’t being subtle enough about his loyalties, as his gaze flickered towards Voldemort’s back over and over, as if he were waiting for his own chance to strike.

“The snake!” Harry screamed, and it felt like it took forever for the words to leave his mouth, “it’s his last one!”

This, at least, drew a reaction from Tom Riddle, as he glanced over his shoulder for long enough that Harry’s next Killing Curse actually came within inches of striking the Dark Lord. Time grew even slower, and the world seemed to disappear except for Voldemort, his serpent, and Snape.

The horrible snake launched itself towards Snape, who had apparently failed to convince the Dark Lord of his allegiance. A glittering red curse missed the serpent, which wrapped around Snape’s body, and crushed him with enough force that Harry could hear his bones snap even over the din of battle.

A moment later, Nagini _exploded_ , its viscera spraying over Voldemort’s soldiers nearby, many of whom dropped to the ground screaming, clutching at their eyes as its foul blood ate into their flesh. Snape's dying curse had been a potent one.

Harry felt a sad smile creep over his lips, as the Dark Lord turned to face him once more, his wrath obvious even on his strange, snake-like features. Harry thumbed at the ring on his left hand which housed the Resurrection Stone, felt the comforting weight of the Cloak of Invisibility on his back.

 _We’ve won,_ Harry thought, _just one last Horcrux now._

When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse once more, Harry did not bother to dodge. He flung his arms wide as the green bolt struck him, and he knew no more.

* * *

Fleur screamed when she saw Harry stand in front of the Dark Lord’s curse, and continued to _shriek_ as she watched Harry Potter die.

She had not been lying about her intentions, on that night when Harry had revealed his darkest secret to her. Fleur would not live in a world without him.

Fleur felt her blood boil as she transformed, fire licking at her fingers, and she prepared to die in battle alongside him. With the last remnants of her human tongue, she screeched the incantation for _Fiendfyre,_ watching with a sense of grim satisfaction as the ruby flames tore through the Dark Lord’s forces, dozens falling in an instant.

She intended to kill as many as she could before she died.

The losses of the Order had already mounted in the battle; a Vampire had rampaged amongst a group of students before the Weasley twins dispatched it, and a Giant had torn Horace Slughorn in half in front of his horrified allies before Neville Longbottom had finally managed to down it.

 _There are many debts to repay,_ Fleur thought, before her ability to think was burnt away by the all-consuming desire to _destroy_ her foes.

Fleur directed her fiendfyre towards Voldemort even as she hurled herself in his direction, perfectly content to fall into the flames of hell so long as she could drag Voldemort down with her. Despite his newly-established mortality, the Dark Lord proved as fearsome as ever, swatting her fiendfyre aside as if it were a fly, and catching her about the throat with his cold, skeletal hand.

“A poor decision,” Voldemort rasped, “to use a weapon against its master.”

“I agree,” a quiet, choking voice replied, and Fleur’s fury drained out of her, replaced by awe, “a lesson which took you too long to learn, Tom.”

* * *

_Bright._

_Hurt._

Harry blinked, as he slowly remembered how to see. He looked around himself blearily, realizing that wherever he was, it was most certainly not Hogwarts.

 _Almost reminds me of a train station,_ he wondered, slowly crawling to his feet.

His clothes seemed to be replaced by plain, all-white garments, and while he ached and felt pain rippling through him with every small movement, he was no longer covered in blood and soot as he had been moments before.

“Oh, Harry,” a sad, wise voice spoke, “my boy. What has happened to you?”

Harry looked up, and what he saw both made sense of his surroundings and confused him. Albus Dumbledore sat on a bench in front of him, similarly outfitted in white, an ethereal, unclear light surrounding him.

“Voldemort,” Harry rasped, “but it should be over now. We can win.”

He heard a burbling, grating cry from behind him, and when he slowly turned to inspect the source of this sound, saw a twisted, scaly mockery of an infant writhing on the floor.

“That was inside me,” Harry understood, “Voldemort’s last Horcrux. It’s destroyed now.”

“You’ve fought in a battle which you never should have had to,” Dumbledore lamented, “it has left you with scars which none should ever suffer.”

Harry looked at his arms, noticing that the tips of his fingers had been blackened, and dark veins crawled up his forearms. When he lifted his shirt, he saw that his heart was surrounded by a similar affliction, as if fire had radiated from within his chest.

_The cost of using the Killing Curse._

“I did what I had to do,” Harry muttered, “anything was worth it, to bring him down.”

“Despite what you say,” Dumbledore stared at him with sad eyes, “the price you have paid… I failed you, Harry. Perhaps it was merely an old man’s dreams, but I had always hoped that at least your soul might have escaped this war unscathed.”

“Well, my suffering has ended, yeah?” Harry grimaced, “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“This,” Dumbledore waved his hand at their mysterious surroundings, “is not the final destination. It is merely, hmm, a waystation, a stopping point before the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have asked too much of you already,” Dumbledore sighed, “and if you wish to move onwards, to this resting place? I cannot, in good faith, deny you this peace.”

Harry became aware of his heart beating in his chest, which seemed an uncomfortably _earthly_ sensation in this strange place.

“You have been the greatest of all of us,” Dumbledore continued, “but if you are willing… well, the battle is not yet won.”

Dumbledore gestured vaguely behind Harry, and when he turned, he got a sense, somehow, of what was happening around his body. He saw Ron, nearly bleeding out, if it weren’t for the torniquet that Luna had applied around the stump of his arm. He saw Hermione, furiously duelling against no less than six opponents at once.

He saw Fleur, fully transformed into her Veela form, directing Fiendfyre (which burned so brightly that even here, it left purple streaks in his vision) towards Voldemort.

He saw Voldemort reach out to clutch Fleur by the throat.

As Harry flew from that strange place, whatever it was, he heard a sound which reminded him of a train leaving a station.

* * *

Harry gasped as his lungs drew breath, when his heart began to beat in his chest once more. Blood rushed in his ears, the _whoosh_ uncomfortably familiar, in some uncertain way. Immediately, Harry launched to his feet, rushing towards Voldemort, catching the words which the Dark Lord spoke to Fleur.

“I agree,” Harry commented, his voice rasping from his throat, “a lesson which took you too long to learn, Tom.”

Voldemort cast Fleur aside in an instant, whirling to face Harry, the Elder Wand in his grip. Harry thrust his hand forward, and the wand flew from Riddle’s fingers into his own, where it landed with a comforting _thud_.

“How!?” Voldemort shrieked.

Harry pointed the wand, and while he couldn’t remember the word he spoke, he recalled its meaning: _burn, cleanse, cremate._

When the ashes of the Dark Lord blew away, so too did his army lose its will to fight, as cries of surrender rippled through the gathered enemies.

Instead of triumphant, Harry just felt tired.

* * *

It was a week after the battle when Fleur had finally had enough.

The had _won_ , and beyond all hope or reason, Harry had returned from death itself to claim his final victory. Yet, despite this, he almost seemed to act as if he had been the one defeated; listless and depressed, a look of utter despair crossing his features when he thought that nobody was looking.

At first, Fleur had thought that it was merely an understandable sort of bereavement, as he mourned those that had been lost; some of those that had died were friends of Harry’s, such as his former Quidditch captain Oliver Wood, or the Creevy brothers who Harry had described as annoyingly endearing.

But those that were closest to him had lived; the Weasleys mourned the loss of another son when they heard of Percy’s sacrifice, but Ron persisted even if he’d lost an arm. Hermione was battered by the battle and in lingering ways from the tortures Bellatrix had inflicted, but she, too, still lived.

Sirius Black had taken Harry back into his household until his godson healed, and Remus was always nearby, but even their survival did not seem to inspire _hope_ in Harry in any meaningful way.

Fleur could not understand what ailed him, so, in what seemed to be their habit for having conversations of great import, she ambushed him in his bedroom, sitting him down on his bed until he explained how she could help him.

“I should have died, Fleur,” Harry answered immediately, and the _ease_ with which he insisted on his own death unsettled her, “I shouldn’t… I don’t deserve to be back, not with what I’ve done.”

“I do not understand,” Fleur protested, “it was a miracle, in the truest sense, how can you argue against that?”

“I saw my _soul!_ ” Harry sobbed, “I can’t blame it on Voldemort! What I’ve done, it was all _me_ , and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from becoming something _worse_ than he was!”

“There are no real heroes,” Fleur argued, sitting beside him, “great men often do monstrous things. It is tragic, but this is the truth of the world, Harry.”

“It’d be safer for everyone if I was dead,” Harry mumbled.

“Tell me,” she begged, “what is it that you want to do? You know your power, you know what you are capable of, how is it that you want to leverage your abilities?”

“I just want to rest,” Harry cried, “I want… I want to be at _peace_ , and I don’t know if I can.”

“No Dark Lord would ever seek these things.” Fleur whispered, running her fingers into his hair, “You are too hard on yourself, _mon champion_ , you still have much to live for.”

“Do I?” Harry asked bitterly, but it looked as if his tears had stopped.

“ _Oui,_ ” she promised him, “after all, there is much that you and I have yet to do together.”

Out of everything she had ever said to him, it seemed as if this statement was what finally broke through to Harry, as his despair melted into utter bewilderment.

“Uh,” Harry blinked, “do, er, do you mean?”

Instead of answering him with words, she kissed him for the third time, and _this_ kiss was nothing that could be explained away as “friendly” or “supportive”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always gets darkest before the dawn, right?
> 
> This one was a real doozy of a chapter, but whenever I thought of trimming parts down, I wound up feeling like I'd be leaving _something_ out in doing so. As a result, here's what's nearly a one-shot in length, covering the rest of the war!
> 
> I definitely intended this chapter to become chaotic and jumbled together by the end, as this was meant to portray just how many different things were happening, and how confusing the war became - to be determined if that's effective or not, but the diminishing scene length over the chapter _is_ , in fact, how it's meant to be. 
> 
> The next chapter will show the beginning of Harry and Fleur's relationship, but things aren't going to get light and fluffy quite yet - they're both carrying more than a little bit of trauma from these events, and that doesn't go away overnight. That said, from here on out, this fic will focus entirely on their relationship, with no real impact from the rest of the Wizarding world. 
> 
> I hope to hear what you all think of this chapter!


	6. nature is a whore *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur and Harry start exploring their new relationship with each other, taking particular time to uncover what has changed now that they are no longer "friends" but instead a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting notes for this chapter:
> 
> Dialogue in guillemets (« ») is used to represent Fleur speaking French, but from her perspective (so it's in English in the narration) - this usage also completely disobeys the rules of French punctuation! 
> 
> Scenes which are preceded by asterisks (***) feature explicit sexual content - for anyone with extremely particular preferences as to the type of content, the first such scene has a rough make-out session, the second contains rather gentle femdom, and the last one contains _very_ light maledom.

Fleur was many things, but she would happily admit that one thing she was _not_ was a patient woman.

She understood very well that the newly-minted relationship between Harry and herself was one which would take time to develop; it was a new experience for both of them, and they were so used to each others’ company that spending time with one another was already a comfortable routine.

Even their beginning had been a comfortable one, which Fleur recalled fondly. Harry had asked her “ _so are we, well, together now_?”, and she had replied with a question of her own: “ _were we not already_?” Despite how obvious it seemed at the time, however, Fleur sometimes wondered if either of them knew what to do now that they had admitted they were a couple.

Fleur would not have described herself as an envious woman, but she had to admit that it seemed as if other couples were navigating the hurdles of post-war romance more easily. Nearly immediately after their victory, Ron had wound up becoming attached to Luna Lovegood, his sister Ginny had started dating Harry’s friend Neville Longbottom, and even Hermione had started making idle comments about visiting Viktor Krum.

It was true that Fleur also believed that her relationship with Harry was already _more_ than these other couples; certainly, describing him as merely her “boyfriend” felt far too shallow when they knew each other so well. She did not expect the same sorts of displays of youthful passion and exuberance that his friends were so enthusiastic about.

_Still, though._

Fleur knew that Harry had been wounded worse than most during the war, and was not expecting him to return to normalcy on any particular timeline, but it tested her resolve that so little had changed since they had officially recognized that they were far more than “friends”. Sure, they stole kisses from one another in private, and the nights that she’d spend in bed with him tended to involve more intimate cuddling than the previous occasions, but past that?

_There are few eighteen-year-olds who would be so restrained with a Veela in their bed._

She also knew that Harry would not be the type to wish to flaunt her in front of others, which she could accept, but Fleur was beginning to feel something which seemed uncomfortably close to “insecurity” as a result of Harry’s continued self-control.

Fleur was quite comfortable with the fact that she could be described as “vain”: while she did not enjoy being valued solely for her beauty, she still appreciated having it recognized. She preferred to dress well in fine clothing that flaunted her features, and the reactions that she drew were a pleasant source of pride.

Where she’d once found Harry’s ability to resist her charms (both magical and conventional) to be intriguing, she was starting to find it _frustrating_. On that particular day, she was dressed appropriately for the August heat, strutting about the house in her shortest skirt and a t-shirt that was so tight it was almost more revealing than if she had gone topless… and yet whenever she caught Harry staring at her, his reactions were limited to blushing and averting his gaze.

 _Were I in his place instead,_ Fleur thought, _I would pin myself against the nearest wall, and claim what is rightfully **mine**._

Fleur was not blind to the fact that the war had also changed her. There had been many times where she had been forced to draw more deeply upon her Veela abilities than she had ever done before, and every time she transformed, she would become a bit closer to that side of her bloodline in her instincts and desires.

Veela were a passionate race by nature. Just as they inspired lust in others, they tended to feel a craving sort of attraction. Though – thankfully – her mother had avoided explicit descriptions of her love life with her father, Fleur was very much aware that her parents’ relationship was one that maintained frequent and heated expressions of their desire for one another, even at their ages.

Her mother had also warned her that, when her blood was running particularly hot, Fleur might find herself wishing to make love as a Veela does: a kind of passion that blended lust and fury; that fell somewhere between sensuality and savagery; a coupling that was at once both a dance and a _battle_.

While Harry couldn’t be aware of it, to these sorts of instincts that Fleur had awakened, his nonchalance came off as a challenge. The way that he would look at her but not touch, or the nights where he’d pull her tightly against himself but his hands would not stray felt like a provocation which only made him more desirable.

 _It may not be him who pins me against a wall,_ Fleur suspected, _for just as I am his, so too is he mine._

Fleur was confident that her feelings for Harry were genuine and not simply borne of a quirk of her lineage, that much was not in question. At the same time, she could not deny that – just as much as she appreciated his sarcastic sense of humour, his insightful observations, and all the other things that made Harry _Harry_ – part of her preened at the fact that a powerful wizard and conquering warrior had taken her as his woman.

She had tried her best to be accommodating and understanding of Harry’s apparent hesitation to escalate their relationship, but – once again – Fleur was _not_ a patient woman.

 _I will find out why he is being timid,_ she decided, _if it is because he lacks the experience to know what I want? I will educate him. If it is because he fears being rejected, then I will correct this misconception._

_If it is because he is too badly hurt to allow himself happiness?_

_I will have to ensure that he can heal from his wounds._

* * *

More than anything else, Harry felt confused lately.

He wouldn’t exactly say he was unhappy – _really, given that we finally won, how could I be?_ – but his life after the war had turned out to be, well…

Harry _would_ say it wasn’t what he had expected, but he hadn’t expected that he’d have a “life after the war”.

He’d moved back in to 12 Grimmauld place with Sirius (and Remus, for some reason), and he wanted to say that it felt like home, but he was starting to find that it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore memories such as “ _this is where Moody died”_ , which tended to sour his thoughts and leave him in some sort of uncertain emotional state.

After Fleur had surprised him by revealing that she had feelings for him, she had been a near-constant presence in his life. Even when she’d returned to France to see her family for a week, they’d talked every night, and when she came back to Magical Britain, she had also moved in to 12 Grimmauld.

This was one of the primary sources of Harry’s confusion. While he couldn’t really pin-point the exact time when his feelings for her had changed from friendship to something more, he didn’t think that that mattered too much, but he didn’t know how things should change now that they were… together?

 _That’s another thing,_ he thought, _what do I even call her? “My girlfriend” seems woefully inadequate, but “lover” seems a bit much given that we haven’t done much else than kissing, and “partner” sounds like she’s an Auror with me…_

 _She’s **Fleur**_ , he supposed that this was the only term that came close to describing how important she was to him. Harry considered himself to be the luckiest bloke in the world (by a huge degree) that Fleur would want to be with him, but all his contentedness couldn’t help him to figure out what he should actually do now that they were together.

Sirius, of course, had been no help at all: his Godfather had bashfully admitted that he, himself, had much more experience in pursuing someone than he did in terms of actually being with them. Remus tended to wax poetic about “what is meant to be will happen” instead of actually telling Harry what he should do.

He had some idea of the basics, of course, but Harry found himself struggling to even manage something as simple as planning a date. _The only pubs I know are the ones we recruited for the Order at,_ he thought ruefully, _and far too often I’d wind up hearing that the newest members would wind up killed a few weeks later._

Harry knew that he should be doing _something_ with Fleur, but he felt as if it was safer to do nothing, rather than risk doing the wrong thing and hurting her.

_Speaking of which…_

Sirius had at least been much more helpful ( _too helpful, actually_ ) at describing the more intimate aspects of a relationship. Harry knew that he wanted Fleur, but he was even more worried that by giving into his desire, he’d wind up doing something to her that she didn’t want.

There were certainly times that she made it hard to resist his impulses.

Harry watched as Fleur stood on her tip-toes to retrieve a glass from the kitchen cupboard, and was so struck by the sight of her that he attempted to commit every detail to his memory: the long sweep of her legs (slender, yet curved in lines of elegant strength), the way that her arse swelled under her skirt as the garment threatened to slip upwards, the dimples on her back near the base of her spine, the curve of her breasts straining against her t-shirt, her graceful neck, _everything_.

In the last days of summer, her skin had become just sun-kissed enough so that it seemed as if it radiated warmth, and Harry wanted to touch every inch of her, he wanted to kiss every bit of her skin, to lick, suck, and bite her entire body.

She turned around after retrieving the glass, and he met her gaze before flicking his eyes back down to the table in front of him.

 _Can’t just pay her a compliment like a normal bloke,_ Harry chastised himself, _gotta get yourself caught leering, don’t you?_

Harry had also begun to develop a growing fear that the desire he felt for her had become _twisted_ , somehow. At times, when they lay in bed together, he felt the impulse to crawl on top of her, to pin her down beneath him and kiss her hard until their lips bled. When his mind drifted to images of what it might be like to sleep with Fleur (in the non-literal sense), Harry sometimes pictured acts that couldn’t be called “making love”, but would probably be defined as “fucking”, at best.

 _Is that what I am, now?_ Harry feared, _someone who can only dominate, who just takes what they want? Someone who enjoys hurting people?_

Fleur knew him better than anyone else in the world, and so Harry knew that it was only a matter of time until he’d have to discuss this topic with her, but she still somehow believed that he was a fundamentally decent person despite everything, and he dreaded tearing that misconception away from her.

*************

Fleur lost her patience the very next day.

Sirius and Remus had _helpfully_ announced that they were going “out”, and probably wouldn’t be back until the next day. While Fleur thought it sounded perfectly reasonable on the surface (Sirius was certainly enjoying his re-entrance into Magical society after receiving a full pardon from Kingsley Shacklebolt), she also knew that it was a somewhat-subtle hint that she and Harry would have privacy for the night.

 _Not that he seemed to notice,_ she grumbled in her thoughts.

When Harry and her had even wound up in his bedroom, her man – though she would have found such earnestness to be endearing in any other context – had merely flopped down on the edge of his bed and asked her “d’you want to go out and do something today?”

Fleur responded by gently pushing him down against his bed and straddling his waist, before urgently pressing her lips to his. Once she took this first step, it was as if the dam of her self-restraint broke, and before long, she had thrust her tongue into his mouth, deepening their kiss and allowing her to express a portion of the desire she felt.

She brought her hands up to run through his hair, and Harry rested his palms against the small of her back. He returned the kiss, his tongue dancing against her own, and Fleur hummed with satisfaction, pulling his face more tightly into her own.

When they separated for breath, she gently slid his eyeglasses off, hurriedly placing them aside.

“You’re gorgeous,” Harry panted.

“And you,” Fleur repaid the compliment, “are very handsome, Harry.”

She was not saying this merely to boost his ego. As Harry had entered adulthood, he had changed significantly from the slight ( _scrawny,_ some might have said) and young-looking boy that she’d first met. At some point, his height had surpassed hers, even though she was tall for a woman, and she now had to look upwards to meet his eyes when they were both standing.

Harry’s frame had broadened and filled in at the same time, and while he’d never be called “brawny”, he possessed a lithe and lean sort of strength, and Fleur _very much_ enjoyed the way that his muscles felt against her whenever he’d take her into his arms.

Fleur understood that Harry resembled his father in looks, and in turn, believed that Sirius Black may have been telling the truth when he’d claim that “me and James were real lady-killers when we were young”, if James Potter had been as attractive as his son.

Harry’s eyes remained one of his most striking features, and even if all his other traits were ignored, the way that they glittered with interest when he looked at her would have been enough to catch her attention all by itself.

Fleur believed that Harry would have been able to date any woman he wanted to even if he weren’t the saviour of Magical Britain. _It only makes sense,_ she thought pridefully, _that he would have me._

With the fresh reminder of how much she desired Harry at the forefront of her thoughts, she leant into him to kiss him again, restarting where they’d just left off. Fleur even believed that Harry had the makings of an extremely talented kisser, at least until those moments where he seemed to hesitate for some reason.

She had already decided that – unless he became actively _distressed_ – she was not going to give him the opportunity to become uncertain.

Fleur kissed him hard, and wiggled her hips against his, pleased with the soft sound of pleasure that he made underneath her. She reached behind herself to grab one of his wrists, moving his hand so that it rested directly on her bottom, and moaned to show her approval when Harry tentatively squeezed.

She continued to rock her body against his, enjoying the feeling even if she started to think that they had too many layers of clothing in the way to really _feel_ each other. Perhaps due to this minor frustration (perhaps merely because she wanted to), Fleur took Harry’s bottom lip between her own, sucking hard and scraping her teeth against the sensitive flesh hard enough that she felt him suck in a breath of surprise.

_Oh!_

His reaction surprised her in the best way. In an instant, it was as if a switch was ( _finally!_ ) turned on inside him, and he suddenly twisted and turned both of them at once, so that he was the one laying atop her. When he kissed her once again, he repaid the favour by drawing her lip between his teeth, and the sensation of his bite was indistinguishable between “pain” or “pleasure”.

Laying that way, Fleur realized that his hips were pressed up between her legs forcefully enough that her earlier frustration about the barrier of their clothing had ceased to be an issue. She wrapped her legs around the back of Harry’s, and he pushed even closer to her, allowing her to appreciate that he was _hard_ , and from what she could feel, that his manhood was of impressive proportions.

Losing herself in the sensations she felt, Fleur began to act on pure instinct. She bucked her hips up against his, and he thrust down even more powerfully in response. She nipped at his lip once again, and Harry responded by breaking their kiss to suck at the side of her neck, grazing his teeth against her skin.

« Yes! » she whined, « that feels so good! »

She seized him by his hair, tugging his face back to hers, and forced her tongue into his mouth aggressively. Harry thrust his hips against her with enough force that she felt her body quake, and Fleur tightened her grip in his hair, tugging against its roots.

One of Harry’s hands found its way to her chest, and he groped her breast with such passion that, even over her bra and shirt, it sent pleasurable shocks dancing over her skin. She gasped when he pulled at her shirt so vigorously that buttons tore free, and Harry then moved his lips to where he’d exposed her, sucking at a spot just above her collarbone hard enough to pull the sensitive skin between his teeth.

When Fleur felt his manhood press against her sex once again, the ripple of pleasure she felt made her realize that she was actually beginning to approach climax.

« Don’t stop, » she begged, « please, do not stop. »

Harry continued mouthing at her chest as he moved closer to her breasts, alternating between light kisses and sucking hard with no discernible pattern. She rutted her hips against his, and when he bit down on the very top of her breast (her shirt torn open far enough so that her bra was exposed), Fleur took a deep, shuddering breath in surprise. She was _close_. She dug her nails into the back of his neck, gripping him tightly.

“Did I hurt you?” Harry’s voice broke through her pleasure, and when she met his gaze, she saw concern in his eyes.

“No!” she promised. _No, no, no, don’t stop now!_

She could have screamed when Harry’s hips stopped moving against hers, and instead of continuing to lavish attention on her breasts, he lifted his face and pressed a slow, gentle, _cautious_ kiss to her lips.

It was the worst possible moment for his uncertainty to reassert itself, and worse, Fleur knew that she would not manage to draw his earlier aggression back out of him any time soon.

She kissed him back, as she wasn’t exactly shocked that he became overwhelmed, but Fleur _truly_ wished that they had kept going.

* * *

Harry was more confused than ever.

When Fleur had pounced on him earlier in the day, it had been great – _fantastic, really –_ right up until he’d gone out of control and taken things too far, just as he’d feared he might.

After all, he’d heard her gasp, felt her claw desperately at the back of his neck, and when he looked up, she looked as if she’d been mauled by a _beast_ : her lips had been red and swollen, her blouse was torn open, and he’d left red marks on her skin including a pink bite mark, of all his bloody idiotic decisions.

 _Sure,_ Harry thought, _she seemed to like it when we did that to each other while kissing, but that doesn’t mean I should have taken it further._

While Harry was relieved that Fleur didn’t seem to be hurt or frightened, he could tell that something was wrong. She’d been a bit on-edge the rest of the day, her usual teasing and jokes coming out a bit snappier than he was used to, but – in a way that confused Harry more than ever – had only seemed even more frustrated when he’d asked her if she wanted some time alone. She’d snipped something in French at him, and Harry had just enough wisdom to stop talking (and certainly to stop trying to come up with ideas).

 _I should really brush up on my French,_ he reminded himself, _could have avoided this whole thing if I’d noticed that she was probably telling me to slow down earlier…_

In a demonstration of her resilience (not that she had anything left to prove to him), Fleur seemed to be mostly back to her usual self by the time Harry had made supper, and when Harry had a shower before bed, he tried his hardest to let his nerves wash out of him as he stood under the flowing water (which he’d set to be cold enough to shock him back to his senses).

He was hoping that Fleur would still want to share a bed with him that night, but he wasn’t certain that she would. They didn’t sleep together _every_ night, after all, but Harry was quickly coming to discover that he seemed to find rest more easily when she was with him.

After he toweled himself dry and pulled his pyjamas on, Harry sighed, before trudging towards his bedroom. He supposed that he’d find out one way or another, though he’d already resolved to give her as much space as she needed.

When he walked through the doorway, he felt encouraged that Fleur was already seated on her bed, wearing a silky-looking robe over her pyjamas.

“We need to talk about this afternoon,” Fleur spoke, and his hopes dropped.

* * *

_Merde, he looks terrified,_ Fleur realized.

“I am not angry with you,” she reassured him, “I simply wish to understand you better.”

“Sorry,” Harry blurted, and Fleur noticed how his eyes flicked around the room, as if assessing whether it contained any threats.

“Come,” she spoke gently, and petted his bed beside her “sit with me.”

After a moment of hesitation, he shuffled towards her, flopping onto his bed. He sat with his shoulders drawn up into himself, as if trying to appear smaller than he actually was.

“Harry,” Fleur murmured, “you do not have to be frightened of me. We are just talking.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, “I shouldn’t, umm, I shouldn’t’ve…”

“Shh,” she shushed him, leaning her shoulder against his and stroking the outside of his arm, “if you are not ready, we can talk another time.”

He seemed to ponder this idea for a moment, before letting out a deep, shuddering sigh.

“No,” he huffed, “you’re right, we should talk about it.”

She turned so that they sat face-to-face, her legs crossed underneath her.

“First,” Fleur had spent much of the afternoon pondering how to broach this conversation, “I want to know why it is that you are apologizing to me.”

“Well, er,” Harry’s stammer had reappeared, “I… it’s pretty clear, isn’t it? I took things too far, I started getting rough with you, and I didn’t stop when I should have.”

« Oh, you dear, sweet, **foolish** man, » Fleur muttered the first words to come to her mind, before collecting herself, “Harry. Why would you think that?”

“Uh,” Harry blinked, as if shocked by the question, “because I was hurting you? I heard you gasp…”

 _Fuck,_ she was so concerned that she swore in English in her thoughts, _if his education has been_ this _lacking, I’m going to skin Sirius and make a Grim carpet out of him._

“The only thing you did which bothered me,” Fleur decided that straightforwardness was the best approach, “is that you stopped **before** I wanted you to.”

“Er?” Harry made a squawking, confused noise.

“I… okay, let us step back for a moment,” Fleur groaned, “you _do_ know what sex is, yes?”

“Of course,” Harry muttered, but the furrow of his brow suggested he wasn’t getting it.

“What we were doing felt good,” Fleur explained, “it felt _very_ good. I was upset because I was close to climaxing before we stopped.”

Harry’s gaze went blank as – presumably – his mind whirled through the sequence of events all over again.

“Ah,” Harry finally realized, “so, uh… yeah, okay, I think I understand now. You weren’t hurt, you were, um, frustrated?”

“ _Oui,_ ” Fleur answered, and couldn’t help but giggle as the tension in the room seemed to go away, “I do not want to push you to do anything that you do not wish to, but I have discovered that I do not enjoy that sort of teasing.”

“But,” Harry licked his lips nervously, “you, uh, you _did_ enjoy it up until then? Even, um, when I was being rough?”

“Very much so,” Fleur confirmed, “why would you think that I did not?”

“Well, uh, I thought I heard you say stop…” Harry scratched at the back of his head.

“ _Merde,_ ” Fleur cursed, “that is my fault. I forget, sometimes, that I am speaking French. I was saying ‘do _not_ stop’.”

“Heh,” Harry chuckled, “I was thinking I need to learn more French anyways, but, yeah, sounds like that would have come in handy.”

“Hmm,” Fleur recalled a concept her mother had explained to her once, “I know! We will decide a safe-phrase.”

“A what?” Harry didn’t seem to have heard of it.

“Something that neither of us would say while being intimate,” Fleur explained, “a word that means ‘stop’, and cannot be easily misinterpreted. I know!”

“You do?”

“One of the absolute worst words you English have,” she teased, “’ _Pineapple.’_ Ugh. It is so much more elegant to say _ananas_.”

“Right, so,” Harry furrowed his brow once again, “we just say that if we want to stop? And if we don’t, we keep going?”

“Exactly.” Fleur confirmed.

“Okay, yeah,” Harry grinned, “I think I can handle that.”

“What else can you ‘handle’?” Fleur asked, feeling particularly reinvigorated by this conversation.

“Uh,” Harry quirked an eyebrow this time, “I think… everything?”

“Oh?” Fleur smirked, leaning in closer to him.

“I mean, it’s all new to me,” Harry barely managed not to stutter, “so, really, whatever you want to do, I’m game. But, uh,”

“But?” Fleur teased, letting her voice drop to a sultry tone.

“I’m, well… I’m a bit worried about myself, honestly. Some of the thoughts I’ve had, I’m not sure if they’re normal. I think that I’m a bit _too_ interested in, er, being rough with you.”

Fleur couldn’t help but giggle, first at Harry’s “dark secret”, next at the baffled expression on his face.

“You are perfect,” she leaned in to kiss him quickly, “and you are not the only one with such desires. So long as we use our word, and we keep such play to the bedroom… I would find pleasure in it. And I wish to pleasure you, also.”

“Uh, you don’t have to,” Harry blushed, “that is, um, ‘pleasure’ me.”

“No?” Fleur wasn’t planning to let this stand, “and what if I want to?”

“ _Why?_ ” Harry seemed baffled by the very idea, “I didn’t exactly do a good job with you, I don’t, well, I don’t deserve-“

 _Absolutely not._ Fleur decided at that moment that she would kill two birds with one stone.

“Harry,” she interrupted him, “I want you to answer three questions for me.”

“Okay?” Harry muttered.

“One,” Fleur held up a single finger, “do you want to resume where we left off earlier, or would you prefer to go to sleep?”

“Uh, yeah, I’d like to do that again,” Harry answered quickly, “that is, if you want-“

“Two,” she spoke immediately, jabbing the two fingers she’d raised into Harry’s chest before he could get started on a ramble, “you recall the word we discussed, yes?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed.

“Three,” she raised the final digit, “you understand that when we play games with each other, in the bedroom, we might treat each other in ways which we would never otherwise?”

Harry nodded eagerly.

“ _Bon_ ,” Fleur was pleased that they had found the same page, “in that case: you are correct. You do not deserve to have me give you pleasure.”

“Oh-“ Harry started.

“ _Yet,_ ” Fleur insisted, “if you correct your earlier mistakes? You may earn a reward.”

“ _Oh._ ” Harry seemed to understand.

When she stood from his bed and let her robe drop off her shoulders, revealing that she wore nothing underneath, she was _certain_ he understood.

*************

Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, beating faster than it ever had before.

Fleur was somehow even more gorgeous in real life than she was when he imagined what she might look like nude. Her breasts were large enough that it seemed like they _couldn’t_ be as firm and perky as they looked, and without clothes in the way, Harry could more deeply appreciate the way that waist dipped in sharply before flaring into her hips. He was struck by the imagery of two coupe-style champagne glasses, one inverted below the other.

“Strip,” Fleur ordered, and Harry didn’t have enough blood left in his brain to formulate a response.

“I-“ he started.

“It was not a request,” Fleur smirked at him, and despite his misgivings about how obviously inadequate he’d look compared to her, he couldn’t help but follow her demand. When he’d shucked his shorts and vest off, his first thought was to turn away from her gaze, but instead of looking at all his various scars with horror or disgust, she looked almost… _hungry_.

“Kneel,” she spoke.

“Uh,” Harry stammered, “I thought we were going to-“

“Kneel,” she repeated, and reached out to press down on his shoulder. Her touch against his bare skin felt electric, and he couldn’t help but drop to his knees in front of her. In the back of his mind, some part of him felt affronted by this treatment, but the rest of him found it more thrilling than he had ever imagined.

From his new position kneeling in front of the bed, with Fleur standing confidently before him, Harry found himself at eye level with her sex, and his breath caught in his chest at the sight. She had a neat strip of blonde curls above her entrance, but was otherwise entirely bare, and to Harry’s eyes her pussy looked just as perfect as the rest of her.

“What do I-“ Harry began to ask, only for Fleur to interrupt him yet again.

“You talk too much,” her tone was unmistakably authoritative, but Harry caught a tinge of excitement in her voice, “zere are better uses for your tongue.”

_Oh, Merlin._

Before Harry could prepare himself, Fleur reached down to pull him forwards by the back of his head, guiding his face between her legs. Harry couldn’t help but groan as his lips met her pussy, the realization of what he was doing (and who he was doing it with) arousing beyond belief.

“Lick,” she commanded, and he wouldn’t dare question it.

Harry slowly dragged his tongue over her sex, and his lust-filled mind couldn’t help but return to his earlier thoughts of “champagne” when he tasted Fleur for the first time. He brought his hands up, reaching around to clutch her arse, only to be prevented from doing so when she grabbed his wrists tightly. 

“You 'ave not earned the right to _touch_ ,” Fleur’s voice hitched partway through, “not until you 'ave pleasured me.”

Once again, the apparent rebuke sent a spark of rebellion through Harry’s mind, but one that was overwhelmed by a wave of excitement.

Harry put aside his own worries that he didn’t know what he was doing, instead taking advantage of every single second of the opportunity he’d been given to go down on Fleur Delacour. He laved his tongue against her thoroughly, alternating between long, slow licks and more rapid flickers over her lips. He listened for the little gasps she made, or felt for the shudders of her legs against the sides of his face, trying his best to determine what she enjoyed the most.

“At ze top,” Fleur murmured huskily – _her accent really comes out more when we’re doing this –_ before gently tugging at his hair, “zere is a, mmm, _un petit_ _bouton_. Lick zere.”

 _I know what a clit is, Fleur,_ Harry couldn’t help but smirk, though he kept his quip to himself, as befitted the role she was having him play.

He traced his tongue slowly around her clit, which made her shudder, then began to experiment, pressing his tongue flat against at times, licking rapidly in random patterns at others. As far as Harry could tell, Fleur’s preference seemed to be “more”, made obvious when she grabbed him by the hair again, pushed his face into her pussy so hard that his nose pressed into her pubic bone, and started to rock her hips back and forth against his mouth.

She began to mutter rapidly in French, and while Harry didn’t catch most of it ( _“oui” is one I managed to puzzle out,_ he thought), it was music to his ears nonetheless.

When Harry pursed his lips around her clit and sucked lightly, he found something that she _really_ enjoyed. Her legs spasmed against him, and she moaned in a way that Harry could understand whether it was in French or English.

When he briefly became aware of his own body once again, Harry realized that his cock was so hard it was practically _throbbing_ , even though neither of them had touched him. After that moment passed, Harry returned his focus entirely to Fleur’s body, which was much more enjoyable for him.

He began to tease her, returning to his earlier technique of light, almost delicate flickers of his tongue against her clit, which prompted Fleur to make a needy, almost whining noise, before she thrust her hips forward demandingly.

Harry lost his own interest in this teasing just as quickly, latching his lips back around her and flicking his tongue as he sucked. It only took moments for this to bring her over the edge, and whatever word she exclaimed while she buried her fingers in his hair was the most beautiful sound Harry had ever heard.

She flopped backwards onto the bed, and Harry couldn’t help but grin with a hint of pride as he watched her _luxuriate_.

“Come here,” she murmured, and he crawled up on the bed beside her.

*************

Fleur had immediately decided that this was the best possible way of dealing with Harry’s insecurities that she could have come up with. She felt more content than she could ever remember feeling before, with warm tingles radiating from between her legs through her entire body.

She pulled Harry towards her, kissing him deeply. She couldn’t help but giggle at the surprise on his face, evidently not expecting her to be so unashamed as to kiss him while her own taste lingered on his lips. Fleur, of course, was entirely unconcerned; she would not expect him to do something that she would not, after all.

“ _Magnifique,_ ” she purred approvingly, “your debt is more than repaid, _mon chou_.”

“Heh,” Harry chuckled as he idly stroked his fingertips over her belly, “I’m glad. I really liked that. All of it.”

Fleur hummed happily, satisfied to ride out the afterglow from her orgasm while Harry explored her body. After a few moments, she reached to gently take his hand, guiding it up to rest on her bare breast.

“They are better without clothing in the way, _non_?” she teased.

“You’re incredible,” Harry murmured, squeezing just firmly enough to indent her flesh, “perfect, even.”

 _Then we will both be perfect,_ she thought.

Fleur was happy to simply allow Harry to touch her if that was what he desired – _at least he’s actually paying attention to me now,_ she mused – but she was equally prepared to do anything else that he wanted.

If he were bold enough, she was more than ready to give each other their virginities, but Fleur suspected that Harry would take some time yet to prepare for that, even if they had taken a significant leap forwards in the intimacy they shared.

When Harry’s thumb brushed over her nipple and sent another ripple of pleasure through her, however, Fleur decided that taking such a passive role was not entirely to her liking.

“Is that how you wish for me to pleasure you?” she teased, “by allowing you to touch me?”

“Oh,” Harry seemed to have lost himself in his task, which amused her to no end, “um, right. I kind of got distracted…”

Laughing airily, Fleur tilted herself up on one elbow, gently guiding Harry to lay down flat on his back. She took a moment to appreciate his nude form; while she knew that Harry disliked the appearance of his own scars, in Fleur’s opinion, they made him look _dangerous_ in a very appealing way. She availed herself of her own chance to explore his body with touch, running her fingertips softly around the edges of his newest scar (a dark, lightning-bolt like pattern which radiated from his chest, the lingering evidence of the _second_ time he survived the Killing Curse), over the ridges of his abdominal muscles, and down to tease at the dark thatch of hair above his manhood.

Harry jumped when she had reached that part of him, and Fleur met his gaze with a wry grin on her face.

“Do you like that?” she taunted, though not unkindly, “is this what you desire?”

“Touch me,” Harry rasped, his nerves clear in his voice.

“But I am touching you,” Fleur baited him, “you will have to be more explicit, Harry.”

“Stroke my cock,” Harry answered without hesitation, and the burr of command in his voice sent tingles down her spine.

While teasing him was fun in its own way, Fleur was much more interested in seeing if she could coax more of his domineering side out of him as she had managed to earlier in the day. Delicately, she ran her fingers over the top of his manhood, which laid heavily against his leg, already well on its way to stiffening.

 _Merlin…_ she thought, as she felt Harry grow hard underneath her touch, _it really is so much better without clothes in the way._

Though it was her first time seeing one in this way, Fleur knew enough about sex and sexuality as theoretical pursuits to understand that Harry was, indeed, quite gifted. He was long enough that she thought his length may have bordered on “intimidating” ( _to a lesser woman than I_ ), and thick in girth such that she wondered if three of her fingers side-by-side would cover him completely.

When she experimentally wrapped her hand around Harry’s manhood, Fleur was amazed at how _hot_ it was in her grip, by the way that it was simultaneously so hard and yet with a springy sort of softness. She could feel the subtle throb of his heartbeat under her fingers, which also impressed her in a way she couldn’t quite define.

Harry reached down to her hand and took it in his grasp, and for a moment she feared that he wished her to stop, until she reminded herself that he had not said their word. Instead, he slowly pumped his hand up and down his own length while it was wrapped around hers, removing his grip only when she took the unspoken command to _stroke,_ not merely to touch.

“ _C’est grand_ ,” Fleur murmured approvingly, sliding her hand up and down in the same way that Harry had. She moved her eyes from her task and started to watch Harry’s face as she administered to him, pleased to see him gazing back at her with lust, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

“Use your mouth,” Harry ordered, and Fleur was once more very pleased that he was comfortable taking charge.

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” she requested, as she smoothly stood up, waiting until he had repositioned himself to kneel between his legs.

His member seemed even larger when she was this close to it, and Fleur didn’t bother to resist her sudden impulse to plant a wet kiss against the underside of his erection, deciding that since she had told Harry to be more explicit, after all, she might as well tease him a bit while following his demands.

Grasping his manhood around the base, Fleur began to stroke him again while she amused herself by planting light kisses along different parts of his shaft. She saw a bead of clear moisture glistening at the end of his tip, and leaned forward to lick it clean.

The taste was salty but otherwise inoffensive, but the reaction this provoked from Harry was absolutely delicious: he groaned loudly, muttering obscenities under his breath. Fleur trailed her fingers up the insides of his thighs, and lowered her mouth until her lips rested against the head of his cock.

“Suck it,” Harry gasped, clearly struggling to remain in control.

Fleur opened her lips, and took the very end of his manhood into her mouth, then hollowed her cheeks, following Harry’s command absolutely as little as possible, since she found she enjoyed hearing his brusque requests.

“Deeper,” Harry groaned, and she moved perhaps a fraction of an inch lower.

Fleur felt a little thrill when Harry’s hand came to rest on the back of her head, and a significantly larger thrill when he began to push her downward. She effortlessly took the next two inches of his cock into her mouth, and felt his head beginning to edge towards the back of her throat.

Curiously, the sensation did not bother her at all. Fleur understood that this was a common complaint for those who performed fellatio, and yet…

Fleur repositioned herself by edging her knees backwards, holding onto Harry’s thighs for leverage as she shifted to a “hands and knees” stance, her neck angled so that it was now parallel with Harry’s erection. His grip on the back of her head had gone slack, so she took the initiative to push herself forwards instead. Fleur felt his cock push into the back of her mouth, and then breach into her throat, but other than making it somewhat harder for her to breathe, she did not notice any unpleasant sensations.

 _Well, it appears I am “gifted” as well,_ Fleur thought smugly.

Without warning Harry, she pushed her head forward roughly, taking his entire length down her throat in a single motion, so vigorously that her nose actually mashed against the base of his abdomen.

“Holy fuck, Fleur,” Harry uttered, as if he were in awe.

 _I suppose he should be;_ her smugness only grew.

She began to bob back and forth, except instead of merely moving her head, she was able to pitch her entire upper body into the motion. Other than the way she became more aware of Harry’s cock pressed against her tongue, Fleur had still yet to feel any sort of discomfort, and she was _supremely_ happy to use this newly-discovered skill to give Harry the deep-throating of a lifetime.

After only a few short moments of plunging his entire manhood into her mouth, Harry’s legs began to twitch under her hands, and she did not blame him for becoming undone so quickly.

 _We are new to this, after all,_ Fleur reached, perhaps, her most smug yet, _we will work on stamina later._

“I’m gonna cum, Fleur,” Harry whined.

Reluctantly, she pulled her mouth free of his cock, affected by this vigorous deep-throating only in that she gasped for breath slightly, and drool trailed down her chin, neither of which bothered her at all. Fleur was thrilled that she had discovered this capability, but had decided it was not how she wished to give Harry his first climax at her hands.

Fleur tilted her arms inwards, pressing her breasts together between her elbows, and began to stroke Harry’s cock with both hands, nestling the tip of his member in the top of her impromptu cleavage.

“Cum for me, _mon beau,_ ” Fleur could hear that she almost sounded drunk, and didn’t care in the slightest.

After a few pumps, Harry groaned loudly, and Fleur felt his cock _pulse_ in her grip before a wet, slightly-cool sensation covered her chest. When she looked down, she was delighted to see that his orgasm had evidently been a powerful one, judging by the quantity of semen which pooled between her breasts.

“That was... wow,” Harry muttered, after his climax finished, “I didn’t know that was _possible_.”

“It appears that I do not have a gag reflex,” Fleur giggled, “lucky you.”

“Fuck,” Harry’s breathy utterance spoke volumes. 

“ _Oui,_ ” Fleur teased, “but later.”

With one final curiosity to settle for the night, Fleur swiped a fingertip against her chest to collect a drop of Harry’s cum. He groaned once again as he watched her slide her finger into her mouth, sucking it clean with an audible _pop._ Fleur immediately judged that the taste was one she could definitely see herself becoming accustomed to.

She cleaned the _rest_ of herself with a quick, wordless cleaning charm, then crawled back into the bed, curling up beside Harry, who seemed to be falling into the border between wakefulness and sleep.

“You’re amazing,” Harry murmured, wrapping an arm around her to pull her into his chest.

“As are you,” Fleur agreed, and swung her leg over his to nestle closer into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting things off with a bang. Well, I mean... 8)
> 
> One of the aspects of this chapter that I found particularly interesting to write was exploring how a couple who had already done all of the "groundwork" of a relationship would handle _being_ a couple - for how I'm writing Harry and Fleur, I felt as if "meander around the topic for a while, then dive into the deep end" was the only rational answer!
> 
> Another aspect is that I also hoped to write both of them as a bit more inexperienced than my characters usually are - Fleur has a lot of ideas about how she wants things to go, but not a lot of practical know-how, and Harry doesn't even have as much theoretical knowledge to draw on. My GOD is it a challenge to write sex scenes that are still intriguing without making the characters come off as unrealistically capable (except for magic Veela sex powers, those don't count). 
> 
> As part of BOTH of these aspects, I also want them to come off as kind of flying by the seat of their pants - they're still figuring things out, but neither of them are experts in either dating or sex, so they're going to blunder and make some (non-serious) missteps as they learn together. Their little "disagreement" in the middle of the chapter is an example of one of these!
> 
> I'm looking forward to hearing the feedback now that the "prologue" of this story is over, and we're in the main Harry/Fleur relationship part!
> 
> I'm also trying to be more descriptive with pre-chapter warnings with this fic - I'd really appreciate hearing if this is beneficial to anyone, or if it's detrimental to anyone's enjoyment of the story, I don't know what the balance is unless I get feedback on it!


	7. bruises on the fruit *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Fleur each do some introspection on the uncertainty of their post-war lives, and spend some quality time together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is primarily a "personal development" chapter, but it also features a couple sex scenes. As before, the beginnings of these scenes will be marked with asterisks (***).

Harry awoke with a start, gasping for breath.

He lifted his head from his pillow and ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, taking deep breaths to try and slow his racing heart. His dreams had been filled with images of the war, with all the blood, death, and screams that entailed, and Harry had to force his instincts to remember that it was over, that he had _won_.

The terror which had finally awoken him had come when his nightmare had turned to a scene of his body falling apart; his fingers had blackened and turned to ash in the dream, falling off of him like dust as he had disintegrated.

 _Fuck,_ Harry thought, _this is why I hate sleeping alone._

Fleur had slept in her own room the night before, as she had an earlier start to her day planned than Harry did – some business at the ministry – but it seemed that his chance to sleep in had been wasted after all. He certainly didn’t think he could fall asleep again any time soon, not with what he still pictured when he closed his eyes.

Harry grumbled and flicked his fingers, casting a silent _tempus_ charm. He still had a few hours before his own appointment at the Ministry of Magic, so he begrudgingly dressed himself, slowly making his way downstairs to fix himself a good, strong coffee.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” Sirius greeted him as Harry walked into the kitchen.

“Morning,” Harry muttered, “didn’t sleep great.”

“No?” Sirius took a casual sip from his tea mug, dropping the newspaper he’d been reading onto the table, “why’s that?”

“Ugh,” Harry rummaged around for a mug, waving his hand to set the kettle to boiling, “just bad dreams. Nothing to worry about.”

Sirius looked at him in silence for a long moment, an expression of concern gripping his face.

“If they’re affecting you this way,” Sirius spoke slowly, almost cautiously, “then it may be something to be concerned about.”

“It’s just dreams,” Harry grunted as he poured coffee grounds into his mug, “there’s nothing to do about it.”

“You could see a mind healer?” Sirius asked, “there’s no shame in that, you know. Been seeing one myself, Remus wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Don’t want anyone rummaging about in my mind,” Harry groused, and poured the boiling kettle directly into his coffee grounds. _I don’t want anyone seeing my memories._

Sirius went quiet again, watching Harry curiously as Harry slumped into a seat at the kitchen table. Harry simply shrugged, then poked his finger at his cup of coffee, muttering “ _purgio liquidum”_ to strain the grounds from it.

“Well, something to think about,” Sirius shrugged in turn, “all I know is it’s helped me forget some of my time in Azkaban.”

“Glad to hear,” Harry said, “I’ll be fine, I just need something else to occupy my thoughts.”

“I’m sure that your lovely flower will be of great help there,” Sirius joked, waggling his eyebrows dramatically.

 _Yeah, she is,_ Harry thought, as he groaned in protest at Sirius’s teasing.

* * *

Harry’s mood had not improved by the time he got to the ministry, and he trod heavily down its halls in a way that probably could have been described as “storming”.

His appointment was not something he’d been looking forward to: one of the few Death Eaters who’d actually surrendered and subsequently been arrested at the end of the war – Theodore Nott Senior – had, for some reason, requested to speak to Harry himself as part of his interrogation.

Harry stomped into the jail housed deep in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, nodding at some of the familiar faces he saw. It had taken some effort to purge the department of various appointments made under Voldemort’s rule, but many of the new Aurors filling these posts were people who’d fought with the Order.

When he came to the door marking the holding cell he was meant to enter, the two Aurors keeping watch on either side of it inclined their heads to Harry, before one produced a magical key, unsealing the door so that he could enter.

The man seated in a chair and handcuffed to a table within had not been impressive-looking at the best of times, and it seemed that imprisonment had done little to improve his countenance. Both Theodore Notts were tall, gangly men, with thin features and overlarge teeth which left a distinctly rodent-like impression.

“Nott,” Harry spoke, “what do you want?”

“Bright Lord,” Nott Sr. answered, the term unfamiliar to Harry, “I… I wish to bargain. My Lord.”

 _What’s all this about?_ Harry wondered.

“You’re not in much of a position to negotiate,” Harry stated, “what are you offering?”

“I have…” Nott swallowed, as if he were nervous, “I have names, my Lord. People who gave aid, those who traded Dark artifacts for favours, others who opened their doors to the Dark Lord’s followers.”

 _Could be useful,_ Harry admitted, _and if anyone would have those names, it’d be Nott._

The Death Eater in front of him was, objectively, barely worth considering a member of that group. From what the Order had uncovered at various points of the war, Theodore Nott Sr. had barely been seen in public, let alone in combat, as it seemed that he had fallen out of favour after being arrested after the Death Eater raid on the Ministry of Magic ( _way back in my fifth year, that,_ Harry recalled, surprised that it had been so long ago).

From what Harry knew, Nott’s participation in the Death Eaters was mostly that he served as a source of funding, as if he thought that he might join a Dark Wizard’s cult like it was some sort of social club. When his Galleons ran out, so had his usefulness, but he’d been lucky enough that neither the Order nor his own master had ever bothered to get rid of him.

“What do you seek?” Harry inquired, “I trust you’re already aware that clemency is off the table.”

“Of course,” Nott muttered, “my Lord. I don’t seek forgiveness for myself, but for my son.”

_What’s with this “my Lord” nonsense?_

Harry tried to remember what he could about the junior Theodore Nott. From what he could recall, the boy had been on the edges of Malfoy’s circle at Hogwarts, but Harry couldn’t bring to mind any incidents where he’d had been involved in anything particularly notable.

“Theo’s only failing is that he had me as a father,” Nott continued, “he was not marked, and was not involved in the Dark Lord’s cause beyond my misguided attempts to educate him in business.”

Harry sat impassively; _seems that Nott’s in a forthcoming mood, might as well let him keep talking._

“He was always a quiet lad,” Nott looked sadly reminiscent, “and the death of his mother made him quieter still. Theodore is far more interested in potion-crafting than devoting himself to any sort of cause, let alone opposing you, Bright Lord. I will tell you everything I know, but I beg of you, please do not hold my son at fault for the sins of his father.”

“Why are you asking me?” Harry was genuinely curious, “you could have negotiated this with the Ministry.”

“I-“ Nott looked _shocked_ by this question, “you are the one who holds his life in your hands, Bright Lord. I would plead my case to you directly.”

“That’s another thing,” Harry grumbled, “what’s this ‘Bright Lord’ business about?”

“That’s… is that not what you prefer, my Lord?” Nott’s shock seemed to have turned to terror, “forgive me, that is the title I believed you had taken, what I heard most often.”

“The Death Eaters called me ‘Bright Lord’?” Harry was absolutely sure that Nott was trying to wind him up for some reason.

“No, ah,” Nott stammered, “they – that is, we – called you ‘the Enemy’. The other title is one that I heard from the common… from the public. My Lord.”

_What the bloody hell?_

“Give your list of names to the Aurors,” Harry commanded, rising from his seat, “if it proves valuable, it may be worth your son’s freedom.”

Harry wandered out of the room in a state of bafflement, entirely unsure of what he could make of the fact that he’d apparently been given a _title_ without his knowledge.

* * *

Fleur had been pleased to have been called to the Ministry of Magic; she was not well-suited to sitting idle, and while she certainly enjoyed her days of leisure with Harry, she also knew that the time for basking in the triumph of their victory was coming to a close.

Her task for the day had not exactly been a laborious one, but she’d felt satisfied by being given something to do all the same: the ministry was planning on launching a campaign to try and move Wizarding society out of the uncertain “post-war” period, and into the beginning of the era which would follow.

They sought her advice in social matters, and had made the excuse that she was fit to fill this role due to her own status as a public figure as well as her experience with “courtly” society. This certainly sounded fine on its surface, but Fleur could indeed read subtle machinations better than most, and knew that the unspoken request was for her to attempt to encourage Harry to attend some of these events.

 _It would be good for him,_ Fleur agreed, _he is also not one who is suited to languor._

When she’d returned to 12 Grimmauld Place, she found Harry in the reading room, a number of newspapers and magazines spread out before him.

“Have you seen this?” Harry seemed to be confused by something, “what they’re calling me?”

“No?” Fleur wasn’t aware of any recent scandals, and understood that the Ministry of Magic was generally taking efforts to ensure that different publications maintained a consistent message in such uncertain times. 

“They’re calling me a ‘Bright Lord’,” Harry snorted, “like… like I’m some sort of, fuck, I don’t even know.”

It was certainly not the most original title that Fleur had ever heard, but neither did she think that it was inaccurate enough to be troublesome.

“And?” Fleur was unclear on what had brought _this_ particular mood about.

“And… well, it’s obviously wrong?”

“How so?” Fleur sat across the table from Harry, skimming one of the magazines he’d piled on its surface. The article about him was certainly puerile, but she did not have high expectations from an obvious fluff-piece.

“I’m not any kind of ‘lord’, obviously,” Harry grumbled, “let alone some sort of champion of the Light, or whatever they think.”

Fleur looked up from the magazine, and stared at Harry, trying to determine if his wit had become so dry that she could no longer tell when he was joking.

“You _are_ the champion of the Light,” Fleur answered when she determined that he was not, in fact, joking, “but I would say that title is a bit wordy, _non_?”

“But…” Harry grimaced, “no, that’s ridiculous.”

Fleur sighed.

While she had promised herself that she would give Harry as much time to heal as he needed, she was equally certain that it would not be helpful for him to fall back into his old habits, when he’d insist far too emphatically that he was “nothing special”.

“Harry,” she caught his attention, making him meet her eyes, “it was _you_ that defeated Voldemort. You were the one who saved Magical Britain from falling into darkness. Yours was the banner that others rallied behind. What is difficult to believe about a title which recognizes this?”

“That was because of magic,” Harry protested, “that’s all over now, I’m back to being just… me. I don’t know.”

“Why does this trouble you so?” Fleur asked softly.

“Earlier today,” Harry explained, “one of the last Death Eaters, Nott, sought an audience with me. He was acting like he assumed that I was the one in charge; not Kingsley, not the Wizengamot, _me_.”

“I see,” Fleur pondered her next words carefully, “and… it upset you that an enemy would recognize you in such a way?”

“It upset me that anyone would,” Harry muttered, “King’s the new Minister of Magic, not me, they can’t look to me for answers any more. I’m not in charge.”

“Hmm,” Fleur did not care for the direction these statements were leading, “are you not?”

Harry stared at her with his mouth half-way open for a moment, before finding his response.

“What?”

“You are a man of power and status,” Fleur shrugged, “it is only natural that people would look to you for leadership after you have demonstrated your proficiency so undeniably.”

“ _Why?_ ” Harry acted as if this concept was alien to him.

“When Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald,” Fleur explained, “he was seen as a champion, as the one who led others to victory. Before long, he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, and the Supreme Warlock of your Wizengamot. People with great achievements will inevitably be recognized as authorities, this is the nature of our society.”

“I’m not Dumbledore,” Harry protested.

“Of course not,” Fleur agreed, “you are much better than he was, in many ways. In the eyes of our world, however? You are seen as a figure of comparable stature.”

“I don’t… how does that make sense?”

Fleur could not understand how it _didn’t_ make sense. Harry was already seen as a hero whose legend had only grown since it began in his infancy, he was recognized as the man who won the war against the Dark Lord because he **had** won, and the Order of the Phoenix had operated under his command.

_Why would people not look to such a man to lead them?_

The only possible explanation Fleur could conjure was that Harry was attempting to blind himself to his own glory once more.

“Consider this,” Fleur tried to guide him away from these self-debasing tendencies, “were you to become an Auror, do you expect that one day you would lead them, as Head Auror, or the department head?”

“Uh, I guess so,” Harry answered, “but that’s not the same.”

“If you pursued a career in Quidditch,” Fleur continued, unswayed, “would you be able to make a professional team? Could you become a captain of said team?”

“Well, probably,” Harry shrugged, “I haven’t flown in a while, but I was a pretty deft hand, yeah.”

“In the case that you instead chose an academic life,” Fleur chose another example, “do you think that you could teach at Hogwarts? Defense Against the Dark Arts, perhaps? Could you picture that eventually leading to you becoming the Headmaster?”

“I… yeah, I could teach, I suppose,” Harry chuckled, “but I wouldn’t become Headmaster unless Hermione decided she didn’t want the post.”

“That is true,” Fleur smiled at him, “but this does not take away from my argument: there is greatness in you, _mon champion_ , so much that it cannot be ignored. Whatever path you walk, you will be outstanding at it. If you chose to become a leader of the Wizarding world? People would follow you.”

“But, I’m…” Harry frowned, “I’m just an ordinary man.”

“There is nothing ordinary about you,” Fleur reassured him, “you are much, much more than that.”

This reassurance did not appear to comfort him, so Fleur continued.

“Besides, this is obvious,” she smiled slyly, “or do you think that I would have fallen for an ‘ordinary man’?”

When she followed this up by leaning across the table to kiss Harry, Fleur felt him smile against her lips.

*************

Harry knew that Fleur meant the best, but her recent efforts to try and push him towards “greatness” ( _whatever that bloody means_ ) were starting to get on his nerves. He even understood why she was motivated to be so insistent about it, but just because he could grasp her reasoning didn’t mean that Harry agreed with all her decisions.

Things came to a head as a result of one of these decisions: Fleur had informed him that they would be attending a Ministry dinner event, which would also include the announcement of a new initiative to recognize various people for the contributions they’d made in the war.

Of course, he just so happened to be the first person receiving one of these commendations, which – as Fleur had further provided – meant that the event would involve Harry getting a medal and giving a speech.

Fleur had sprung this on him when they were just about to go to bed, and whether it was due to the late hour or because of his ongoing frustration at being seen as some sort of magical hero, Harry immediately started to voice his complaints. 

“Giving speeches isn’t my thing, at all,” Harry argued, “why did they assume I’d agree to that?”

“I already agreed for you,” Fleur answered, “just as I accepted the invitation on our behalf.”

“Fleur!” Harry protested, “why didn’t you ask me first?”

“I knew you would try to squirm out of it,” she explained, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world, “but it is important that these events are held, our world has to accept that the war happened before we can begin to move past it.”

“But… making a big show out of me? I don’t need a medal or a fancy ceremony!”

“It is not just about what you need,” Fleur sniffed, “it is also good for others to see that you stand triumphant.”

“There’s so many others who should be recognized before I am,” Harry objected, “this just sounds like you want me to show off!”

“And if I do?” Fleur crossed her arms over her chest, “maybe it would be helpful if people saw you acting like the champion you are, instead of busying themselves coming up with rumours to explain your absence from the public eye.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be in the public eye!” Harry ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, “and I definitely don’t want to give a speech?”

“Oh?” Fleur’s eyebrows dropped into an intense expression just short of a glare, “so it would be better to receive your medal by an owl? To leave people whispering about how you are only seen when there are Death Eaters to interrogate? Fearing that you are still busy pursuing your enemies?”

“No, I don’t want that!” Harry shouted, “but I don’t see how getting a piece of metal pinned to me and mumbling a few words will help!”

“What do you want, zen?” Fleur stepped closer, poking a finger into his chest, “tell me what you would do instead, and I will make it happen. But if you ‘ave no better ideas, zis is what we are doing.”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Harry grumbled, “I don’t know what I want, okay?”

A moment passed as they took account of each other; while Fleur and Harry had certainly disagreed with each other before, and were no strangers to passionate displays, this was the first time that they had truly argued since they’d become a couple.

They stared into each others’ eyes, neither willing to be the first to back down, but also becoming more aware of how close they were standing.

“I know one thing you want,” Fleur purred, and her hand dropped from Harry’s chest to between his legs in an instant, cupping his cock over his pyjamas.

Harry growled, surging forward to crush his lips against hers. Fleur immediately fought back in her own way, pushing her tongue into his mouth and kissing him just as aggressively, as she attempted to shove him towards the bed.

He turned the two of them so that he was pushing her towards it instead, but Fleur hooked one of her legs into the back of his, tipping Harry off-balance and allowing her to throw him down on his back against the bed.

She leapt on top of him immediately, kissing him fiercely and grabbing at his arms, attempting to pin them above his head. Harry kissed her back, but wrestled his arms free of her grip at the same time, before he reached down to seize her hips and haul her to the side.

“Oh, now you know what you want?” Fleur taunted.

Harry tried to crawl overtop of her, but she managed to wriggled her legs free before he could straddle her, and when he reached down to grab behind her knees to lock her limbs in place, he just wound up giving her the leverage she needed to rise to a half-kneeling stance.

Fleur shoved him back against the bed once again, but Harry’s hold on her legs caused her to tip over with the force of her own motion, so that she wound up sprawled perpendicular to him, laying across the top of his legs. Impulsively, Harry brought his other hand down on her arse, and a loud _slap_ echoed through the room.

“Am I to be punished, then?” Fleur spoke huskily, and Harry propped himself up so that she was actually bent across his lap, his legs dangling from the side of the bed.

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Harry returned, swatting her arse again, though not as forcefully as the first time.

“You will have to tell me,” Fleur continued to taunt him, though she’d suddenly stopped fighting to escape his grasp, “if you ever intend to begin my punishment.”

Harry yanked the bottom of Fleur’s nightdress upward, exposing her bottom half completely. Without hesitating, he spanked her again, hard enough to cause her arse to jiggle and to leave the beginnings of a hand print.

The sight was entrancing to him. Fleur’s arse was – as with everything about her – absolutely spectacular, somehow managing to be firm and soft at the same time, large and round and tapering into her back in a heart shape.

Harry swatted her other cheek with his next spank, leaving a matching red mark on that side. He heard Fleur hiss underneath him, but from the way that her hips ground into his lap, he suspected that she had no complaints about this sort of treatment.

For a while, Harry entertained any impulse that came into his head; in some moments he would slap Fleur’s arse hard enough to leave red outlines of his hand, other times he was content to slowly knead and squeeze her arse cheek. He quickly grew hard from the sight of her arse in his palm, and Fleur began to wriggle her hips against his cock after every strike.

“Is that enough?” Harry goaded her, and ran his fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh. When he stroked against her sex, he found that her pussy was _soaking_ wet.

Fleur made a wordless noise of desire, and lifted off his lap, her hand immediately landing on his hard cock. She pulled him forward with this intimate grip, guiding him to stand, and immediately reached to tear Harry’s pants down, his member springing free.

She practically seemed to _inhale_ his cock, surging forward in an instant to take Harry into her mouth. He exhaled a satisfied sigh, and ran his fingers into her hair, pulling her head into his groin until his entire length was hilted in her throat.

Before he’d first experienced it with Fleur, Harry had been vaguely aware of the idea of “deep-throating”, as a concept, but had always tended to dismiss it as a scenario that would realistically be left to Seamus’s most pornographic magazines. Reality, it turned out, was so much better than Harry’s wildest fantasies.

“Turn over,” Harry commanded, and Fleur detached from his cock just long enough to flop over onto her back, her face between his legs.

He thrust forward, pushing his length back into her mouth, and the brief moment of concern that he felt ( _what if this is too rough?_ ) was cast aside when Fleur reached above her head, grabbed him by the arse, and pulled him forward roughly, shoving his cock back down her throat.

Harry hunched forward and yanked the top of Fleur’s nightdress down, leaving it banded around her midsection and her tits thrust into the air. He planted his hands on her breasts and kneaded them roughly, using his grip on her tits for leverage to begin pumping slowly back and forth.

Fleur made a satisfied groaning sound, and the vibrations around his cock were _incredible_.

He immediately decided that he had no desire to draw this out, and started absolutely fucking her face, only egged on by the way that Fleur would squeeze his arse or pull him forward if his pace slowed. As Harry felt his climax approaching, he reached to grab Fleur’s wrists, moving her hands upwards.

Harry pulled back with a long motion, his cock popping wetly free from her mouth. He placed her hands directly against his length, and she got the message without any words being necessary, beginning to stroke him urgently and quickly, her tongue lolling out of her mouth to lash against the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned as he came, his legs spasming so hard that he had to focus to stay standing. His cum splattered over Fleur’s face, a good portion landing in her open mouth, but the remainder coating her cheeks and chin with white.

He barely had time to find his bearings before Fleur rolled over and hauled him back into the bed, a positively maniacal look of lust on her face. She yanked his arm between her legs, and Harry obligingly pressed two of his fingers into her wet pussy, hooking them towards himself in the way that Fleur had instructed him.

The way that she looked _desperate,_ her face coated in his cum as she rutted her hips against his hand, was a sight that Harry never wanted to forget. It did not take long before he felt her clench around his fingers, her hands gripping his wrist so hard that he was surprised it didn’t break, as Fleur _shrieked_ when she came.

They collapsed together wordlessly, and didn’t see any cause to speak the rest of the night. Fleur crawled over him, nestling her face wetly against his chest, and hooked all of her limbs around him, clinging to Harry tightly.

 _Pretty brilliant way to resolve an argument,_ he thought.

* * *

More and more often of late, Fleur had found herself pondering the future. As unclear and undefined as the concept may have been as a whole, she was becoming increasingly convinced of certain details: that Harry was absolutely going to be a titan of magical society; and that she would become the idiomatic “great woman” to “stand behind” this great man.

The thought of being “behind” did not trouble her overmuch. Fleur did not exactly expect that she would disappear from the public eye, nor that people would forget what she was capable of by herself, but there was no shame in being considered ancillary to a legendary figure like Harry Potter.

 _Besides,_ she mused, _he will need my help to become all that he can be._

This, too, only seemed natural to her. Her own parents had followed a similar trajectory in their lives; Fleur’s father had begun his life as a peripheral member of a minor aristocratic family, and after marrying her mother, had quickly become a powerful, wealthy, and influential figure in Magical France. To Fleur, it just made sense that a couple would support one another in becoming the greatest versions of themselves.

She could not deny that her Veela nature was similarly pleased by this idea. Like many of the folk tales and legends surrounding her kin, the fables describing great and powerful wizards who took entire clans of Veela as their brides were not necessarily _wrong,_ but missing great chunks of context and consequences.

_In most cases, if a wizard became the husband of a whole clan? He would not see this fate as a triumph._

Her kin were a passionate people, to be sure, but this temperament was often accompanied by avaricious and covetous tendencies. A powerful wizard would father a generation of strong Veela, but he would not be treated as a “husband”; rather as a prized possession if he were fortunate, or as a resource to be used up if he were not.

 _Those instincts_ do _drive me to seek power,_ she admitted to herself.

It was altogether fairly rare that wizard would manage to impress a Veela woman enough that she would be willing to become his wife in the human sense of the term (her maternal grandfather, an almost frighteningly intense man she’d met only rarely, was one of these rare men), but for those that did, these same instincts would drive a Veela to be a zealous and devoted supporter of their spouse.

Fleur was both a witch and a Veela at once, but in this regard, both parts of her nature were in accord with one another: nothing, not even his own doubts, would prevent Fleur from showing the world just how incredible Harry already was.

* * *

Harry had begun to turn his frustrations inwards. Rationally, he knew that Fleur was correct to argue that – as an important figure in the eyes of the public – he had certain obligations and expectations to fulfill to help Magical Britain begin healing from the war. This didn’t mean that he enjoyed the thought of being even more “famous” than he’d been as a child.

He suspected that he was being unrealistic by hoping that he could just be left to live whatever sort of life he felt like; the mounting evidence that Wizarding society tended to fall in line behind whoever was the most talented at waving their wand around certainly seemed to preclude this possibility for him even if he had never wound up in command of the Order of the Phoenix.

 _If I’m some “Bright Lord” like they claim,_ he wondered, _why can’t I just order them to get over it, take care of themselves, and learn some common bloody sense?_

It was also becoming obvious that his protracted absence from the public eye was beginning to embolden certain voices that Harry had – naively, perhaps – assumed would be too embarrassed to speak up this closely to the end of the war.

 _Stupid fucking Purebloods are already mouthing off about “preserving the noble lineage and history of the Wizarding World”,_ Harry rued, _even fucking Voldemort cast those beliefs aside when it became convenient._

Harry knew that he had no friends among that crowd, but also understood that they were likely too afraid of him to risk going against him in public. His actions in the Slytherin dungeon weren’t precisely public knowledge, but word had certainly spread through Pureblood circles, at least. If he was able to use his “status” to intimidate them into acting in the interest of the greater good for once, Harry supposed that he could at least stomach that side of public relations.

Of course, this thought immediately caused him to chastise himself for once more resorting to displays of force as his default solution to a problem, which in turn led to a _second_ internal criticism for his inability to accept that he possessed the power to affect change, which then produced all new doubts about an eighteen-year-old being able to overturn these ancient institutions (when not even Dumbledore had managed to), so on and so forth, until he felt like his mind was spinning in exceedingly frustrating circles.

As much as Harry had also grown to resent the fact that most of his youth had been spent as a puppet at the end of strings held by different people, there were times where he almost missed the simplicity of having someone who could tell him exactly what to do.

He supposed that Fleur was doing her best, but he knew that she was hardly any more knowledgeable than he was when it came to trying to heal a country.

 _Not to mention that whenever we disagree, it turns into us getting naked together pretty quick,_ Harry thought, _definitely can’t complain about that, but it’s not exactly a transferable skill when it comes to politics, yeah?_

Harry felt like he had more to figure out about his life than he ever did before, and the thought overwhelmed him so much that at times he wished that he could just run away from everything and avoid the topic altogether.

*************

“Fucking Purebloods,” Harry muttered under his breath as he flopped into the bed, “absolute idiots, the entire lot of them.”

“More troubles with the War Reparations Act?” Fleur asked, reaching out to idly tousle his hair.

“Something like that,” he grumbled, “they’re kicking up a fuss about hiring practices, of all things, and King saw fit to ask if I could ‘place subtle but unmistakable emphasis’ on the fact that I’m a half-blood by their measure.”

“Mmm,” Fleur hummed in agreement, “I do not count as a human being, according to some of them, so I understand.”

“It’d be easier if they came at me with wands out, rather than writing letters to the editor,” Harry groused, “that, I know how to handle.”

“You certainly do,” Fleur scratched his scalp lightly with her nails, “but they are cowards, you know that.”

“How d’you figure King would like it if I put that in my speech?” Harry chuckled, but it was a frustrated sound, “’my only regret is that I didn’t kill more of you, thank you, goodnight’, that’d go over great, yeah?”

“Many warriors find peace to be a more difficult struggle than war,” she offered, “I think that this is simply a different sort of battlefield, and you will become just as accomplished in this one.”

“Fuck, I just heard what I’m saying,” Harry rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if that could chase his frustrations away, “arguing that the Pureblood is a cowardly, callow sort by nature, and that the Wizarding world would be better off without them. Change some of the words around, and I sound just like him.”

“Harry…” Fleur didn’t like where this particular rant was going.

“Dark Lord, Bright Lord, what’s the difference?” he muttered darkly, “kind of two sides of the same coin, isn’t it?”

“You should not trouble yourself in this way,” Fleur argued, but Harry was certainly on a roll.

“No, it’s true,” he snapped, turning onto his side to face away from her, “I’m probably more similar to Voldemort than any other living wizard is, aren’t I? Merlin knows that I came close enough to that line in the war…”

Fleur knew that she could not allow him to continue down this train of thought, so chose to interject in the best way that she knew.

She wrapped herself around Harry’s back, and clutched him tightly enough that his next words were cut off with a huffed breath.

“Stop it,” she ordered.

“I’m not wrong,” Harry argued, “I-“

Fleur brought her hand over his mouth, silencing him by force.

“I will not hear you insult yourself like this,” she spoke resolutely, “and if you persist with such foolishness, then it is best you do not speak.”

“Mmpfh,” Harry tried to talk through her hand anyways.

“ _Non_ ,” Fleur insisted, “you will listen to me.”

Harry writhed in her grasp, but Fleur would not be dissuaded so easily. While Harry was taller, heavier, and more muscular than she was, she was not a weak woman by any metric, and on top of that, Veela were _much_ stronger than their appearance suggested. Fleur let her passion flow through her, drawing on that power as her blood began to run hot.

She rolled onto her back while clinging to Harry, pulling him so that he was sprawled on top of her, his back pressed into her chest.

“You are a brave man,” Fleur hissed, “a strong man, and a willful man. All of these are things I respect. You are _not_ a tyrant, and I will prove it. Submit yourself to me, and I will reward you.”

Fleur realized that she may have let herself become overwhelmed by the desires which her Veela side brought out, but she did not care.

“I-“ Harry started to protest, and Fleur hooked her legs around his, pulling their bodies taut.

“Let me show you,” Fleur whispered into his ear, snaking one of her hands down the front of his body. When she reached between his legs, he was already starting to grow hard.

Her blood began to run even hotter.

With a noise of frustration, Fleur flicked her fingers, vanishing Harry’s clothes in an instant. He yelped in surprise, but she crushed him even more tightly against her, and his brief protestations were silenced. She wrapped her hand around his manhood and began to stroke him quickly, with no build-up or teasing.

“Give yourself over to me,” she hissed, pushing her hips into Harry’s back so hard that he arched off the bed slightly, trapped in her limbs.

“You know I have,” Harry rasped, but Fleur made a shushing sound, and reached to take a loop of her long, blonde hair in hand.

“No speaking,” she ordered, and wrapped the lock of her hair around Harry’s throat, before she pulled it taut. It was not tight enough to strangle, by any means, but she put enough force into the gesture that it was sure to provide a firm pressure around Harry’s neck, and yanked against her own scalp in shocks of pleasurable pain.

She pumped his manhood even faster, watching as Harry’s legs and torso twitched at times, no doubt overwhelmed by sensation.

“Submit to me,” Fleur demanded, and her blood was _fire_ as she luxuriated in the way that such a powerful man was unable to escape her grasp.

Fleur lowered her mouth to the side of Harry’s neck, where the muscles of his back met his nape. She kissed lightly, then grazed her teeth against his skin, causing him to shudder.

“You are so beautiful like this,” Fleur slurred, her voice thick with lust, “so helpless to resist me.”

She bit down on this spot _hard_ , and she tasted a hint of coppery blood on her tongue.

 _You are **mine**_ **,** she reveled.

Harry groaned, and his body arched upwards, his manhood twitching in her hand as his climax overcame him. He came all over his own chest and belly, and Fleur smeared her fingers through his seed, bringing her hand to her lips to loudly suck his essence from her digits, right against his ear.

“No Dark Lord would allow themselves to be treated thus,” Fleur nipped the outer shell of Harry’s ear, prompting another twitch from her lover, “you are magnificent, _mon conquérant,_ but you are still a man.”

“Fuck,” Harry whimpered, “I guess I am.”

She released her limbs from around him, permitting Harry to roll off her, coming to rest on his side.

“Do you want me to…?” he inquired.

“No, I am satisfied,” Fleur purred, leaning in to kiss him gently.

In truth, she wasn’t, but she also knew that if she entertained her own lusts any further in this moment, that she would not be able to stop herself from taking everything she could from him.

_Soon, he will claim me the way I desire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They sure are trying their best, but these two might be playing with fire a bit, hey?
> 
> Rest assured, the last few chapters will show the development of their relationship into something that becomes a bit more conventionally romantic, but right now these two are basically throwing themselves into each other with wild abandon. 
> 
> Comments are welcome :)


	8. we can have some more *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleur and Harry reach some new milestones in their relationship, after overcoming some hurdles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, this has explicit sex scenes marked with asterisks (***)
> 
>  **cw** : the third scene has some events that could be read as a mutually-aggressive form of an abusive relationship - while it is NOT an abusive dynamic, any readers who are particularly sensitive to this topic may want to avoid that part of this chapter

Things had reached a point where, for the most part, Harry’s life was beginning to feel a bit more stable. He and Fleur had moved in to one of the minor Black properties, a building closer to a large apartment or small house which was closer to the outskirts of Diagon Alley than 12 Grimmauld Place was.

For the most part, Harry was content with this, and certainly felt a bit more capable of moving past the war when he wasn’t being confronted with daily reminders of the times that he’d made life-or-death decisions at 12 Grimmauld, or the battle that had been fought within its walls.

They’d pieced it together after the fact that it had been Walden Macnair who had struck down both Alastor Moody and Kreacher, but that particular Death Eater was no longer a threat to anyone. By the time that he’d met his end (after Hagrid threw him _through_ one of the castle walls), Macnair had been on his last legs anyways, ravaged by Kreacher’s final use of magic.

Harry found this knowledge satisfying in some unpleasant way, but more than anything else, he found it relieving that he didn’t have to dwell on meting out revenge to those who deserved it any more. His enemies had been defeated, and Harry was coming closer to being able to accept that the war had _really,_ finally ended.

Fleur also seemed to be fairly content with their new residence. While she was certainly a woman who was right at home in a mansion, Harry thought that she was enjoying the opportunity to put more of a personal touch on the décor.

For the first time in… well, ever, Harry found that he could start to idly ponder thoughts of the future without becoming distressed by the idea: his recent role as somewhat of a public figurehead for the Order’s victory hadn’t been as bad as he had expected, and he supposed that he could tolerate attending the occasional dinner or gala if it helped other people to heal from the war.

He had started to kick around the idea of joining the Aurors officially, and he knew full well that if he showed up at their offices tomorrow morning, they’d have an office and desk ready for him before lunch. Harry had time to make this decision, but he finally thought he was actually progressing towards something.

Everything was going well, as far as Harry could tell, which only made it more difficult when he _couldn’t_ feel good about the state of his life. Unless he kept himself distracted, he had noticed that he tended to become preoccupied by darker sorts of thoughts, which he did his best to ignore as steadfastly as possible.

 _Time heals all wounds, yeah?_ Harry thought, _probably just need to wait it out a bit longer._

* * *

Fleur was fairly content, all things considered. The move to one of the Black family houses had been a good decision, she thought, and Harry seemed to be slowly working himself up to doing _something_ with his post-war life.

The seemingly glacial pace at which Harry was adjusting was, at times, frustrating for her, but she remained committed to her own decision to take a gentle approach with him. As much as she felt the drive towards pulling him back into the public eye and making his status undeniable even to himself, Fleur found that the occasional events they’d attend together were an acceptable fill-in.

The first time that Harry’s aforementioned status became an issue for her arose unexpectedly: one afternoon, Harry had returned from a meeting with Gringotts, which he’d ambiguously described as “handling some family business”.

When he revealed that this business actually involved getting his name officially on the deed for their new home, Fleur became confused.

“I thought this was a Black property?” Fleur questioned, “did you have to purchase it from Sirius?”

“Nah,” Harry answered, “I don’t really understand what the requirements were myself, but it was something about ensuring that it was assigned to me, rather than ‘Lord Black’, that is.”

“Are we not staying here?” Fleur wondered.

“We are,” Harry reassured her, “it’s just that the Black family deeds are a bit more complicated, since I’m not the head of house and all.”

“…why would that matter?” Fleur knew that the old Pureblood families of Britain could be spectacularly arcane in their webs of family trees, but surely Sirius could present his godson with gifts such as this house?

“Oh, well,” Harry shrugged nonchalantly, “since I’m Sirius’s heir and all, I count as a Black in some ways, but not others.”

 _Not just a godson, then,_ Fleur realized.

“You are the heir to House Black?” she inquired, and her voice became cold.

“Er, yeah?” Harry looked uncertain.

“And you didn’t tell me this _why_?” Fleur demanded.

“Uh, it didn’t come up?” Harry’s confusion was evident, but failed to reassure her in the slightest.

Fleur’s mouth opened, then she bit down on the words she was about to say.

 _He cannot be so foolish,_ she thought, _but why else keep this a secret?_

Instead of trying to discuss her realization, Fleur stormed off, her emotions a confused mess.

* * *

“Fleur!” Harry called out, “what’s wrong?”

Out of nowhere, she’d suddenly gone cold, and stormed off in a way which suggested he had well and truly infuriated her, somehow.

Harry couldn’t figure out _why_ she was behaving like this, which meant that he had to do so in a hurry, before her anger turned into anything worse.

“You keep secrets from me,” Fleur snapped at him, “do not think me foolish, Harry.”

“What?” Harry was bewildered, “what secrets? What on earth do you mean?”

“I am no fool!” Fleur reversed course, instead of storming away from him, she stomped into his personal space, “I know what it means if you are to be Lord Black one day!”

“…I don’t?” Harry had absolutely no idea what she was getting at.

Fleur spat a string of French that Harry couldn’t understand, but he didn’t need to translate the words to grasp that they were angered curses.

“You are the head of House Potter,” Fleur snipped, “and one day, you will add a second title to your name. _Indigne de confiance!_ Do you think me naïve?”

“Fleur, I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Harry grumbled, “if anyone’s naïve here, it’s me, so what the **fuck** is the matter?”

“Two houses,” she spat, “means you could take two wives.”

“That’s absurd,” Harry argued, “I had no idea that was the case, and it’s not something I’d do anyways!”

“Why not!?” Fleur poked him in the chest, “why would a man with your status not take advantage of it?”

“You know I don’t even want this status!” Harry pushed her hand away from him, “you’re the one that’s been pushing me to act like some sort of noble lord, I don’t care about all that!”

Fleur slapped him, and his cheek immediately burned from the strike. Before he could even process what was happening, Harry slapped her back, and her eyes ignited in fury.

“Of course I want that,” Fleur growled, and she shoved him back against the wall, hard enough that the back of his head bounced against it, “and _you_ know that I am Veela, a clever little plan, was it not?”

“I’m not _planning_ anything!” Harry shouted, pushing her away from him.

“Keeping me waiting,” she snarled, and surged back towards him, trying to pin his arms against the wall. Harry twisted, freeing himself from her grasp, and seized her by the front of her shirt, spinning her into the wall instead.

“Waiting until I am desperate enough to accept anything,” she continued to sneer, “is that it?”

Her head darted forward as she attempted to _bite_ him, and Harry’s blood ran hot. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, hard enough that his own hand slammed into the wood wall behind her, where he felt the familiar pin-prick sensation of broken skin.

“What. The fuck. Are you talking about.” Harry had to spit the words out between gasping breaths, barely restraining himself from lashing out further.

Fleur dug her fingers into his side, distracting Harry for long enough that she managed to reverse their positions once again, pushing him back against the wall.

“You have not claimed me as yours,” Fleur hissed, and Harry could see hints of her Veela transformation at the edges of her features, “is it because you are waiting until you revealed that you would have another wife?”

“Of course not,” Harry grunted, “I had no idea about any of that shite, and it doesn’t fucking matter. You’re the only one for me, you fucking know that.”

“Prove it,” Fleur squawked, and pushed herself against him hard, claiming his lips in a gesture that sat halfway between a bite and a kiss.

“Fleur,” Harry gasped when she released him momentarily, “wait.”

“ _Non_ ,” Fleur reached down and tore the waistband of his pants open, “I have waited long enough.”

He felt her Allure wash over him, but rather than inspiring lust, it felt uncomfortable, _hot_ in a way that resembled a branding iron more than anything desirable.

“Fleur!” Harry protested, reaching down to grab her wrist, “listen to me!”

 _We can’t solve every problem like this,_ Harry knew.

“ **Prove it** ,” Fleur repeated, and her voice sounded harsh and nearly metallic.

“Fleur!” Harry called her name once more, “stop it!”

Instead of replying with words, she growled, and slapped his arm aside, shoving her own hand down his pants to grip his member.

_Fuck, this isn’t how I want our first time to go._

“Pineapple!” Harry called out, making use of the phrase that they’d designated for situations where one of them was uncomfortable.

As ridiculous as it felt to call out the name of a fruit in such a serious situation, it worked. Fleur stared into his eyes, fury and lust nakedly evident in her fiery gaze, but his exclamation seemed to bring her back to her senses a bit, and she stepped away from him.

She took a deep, shuddering breath that turned into a sob when she released it.

 _“Je suis un monstre,_ ” she gasped. _I am a monster._

“ _Non,_ ” Harry answered as best as he could in her language, “let’s talk. Come on, we’ll sit down, and we’ll figure this out.”

* * *

Fleur was ashamed, embarrassed, and heartbroken all at once. She had been within seconds of losing control of herself entirely, and Harry had nearly become her _victim_ rather than her lover.

She feared that she had irrevocably ruined things.

 _If he did not already think to take a more suitable wife than I,_ she feared, _then surely, he will now._

“Okay, let’s start over, at the beginning,” Harry spoke to her, and she almost felt like crying at how he was looking at her with concern in his eyes ( _it should be fear, or disgust_ , she thought).

“It is as I said,” Fleur muttered, “if you become Lord Black as well as Lord Potter, by the practices of your culture, you would be expected to take a second wife.”

“Right,” Harry answered, “that’s a load of bollocks. I don’t plan to, that idea sounds ridiculous, and that’s the exact sort of shite that I’m trying to put a stop to.”

“It would be the prudent move,” Fleur muttered, “it would enhance your political status, and allow you command of two seats in the Wizengamot.”

“Fuck the Wizengamot,” Harry’s response was immediate, “Fleur, I know that you think it’s important that I’m involved in politics, but I am never going to do something that would endanger _us_ for the sake of power.”

“Then you are as foolish as you are noble,” Fleur cried, “I know what family means to you. You would see the line of Black end under your watch, simply because you fear I might become jealous? You would betray Sirius’s trust like that?”

“There’s no bloody way that Sirius thinks I’m going to have two wives,” Harry was clearly exasperated, as he ran his hands through his hair, “the whole thing was meant to be a safeguard during the war. If Sirius had died, then fucking Draco Malfoy would have become the Lord of Black otherwise, and we couldn’t have that happen.”

 _Merde, that makes perfect sense,_ Fleur realized, _it is not Harry that is the fool, but myself._

“Besides,” Harry spoke gently, “who could ever measure up to you?”

 _He truly has no idea what he implied, before,_ Fleur understood, _nor how I would interpret it. I must explain what I had presumed._

“My sister,” Fleur choked out, admitting the fear that had seized her during their argument.

“What?” Harry was flabbergasted, “Fleur… Gabrielle’s a _child_ , what are you saying?”

“I am a _Veela_ , Harry,” Fleur felt tears fall as she spoke the words, “do you have any idea what that means? What it _truly_ means?”

“I’m clearly missing something,” Harry murmured, “can you explain it for me?”

“We have certain tendencies, impulses, _instincts,_ ” Fleur waved her hand dismissively, “part of it, yes, is that I wish to see you become a powerful, important man. As a woman, I intend to support you, but as a Veela, it is a source of pride for me to see you become strong, a feather in my cap, _non_?”

“I’m really not understanding how that relates to your sister.”

“If you were to take two wives,” Fleur grimaced, “it would be my _instinct_ to bring Gabrielle into this household. It is a sign of status, for a Veela, to be able to share a mighty, impressive mate with their sisters.”

“That’s…” Harry frowned, and she dreaded the next words he would say, “look, I don’t understand what it’s like to be a Veela, okay? But I’m not going to marry your sister. Merlin, she’s what, twelve? What do you think of me that you’d assume I would even consider that?”

“I am not fucking human,” Fleur spat, “that is the problem, is it not? As soon as you mentioned House Black to me, one half of me assumed that was the natural solution, and the other… was not happy, as you could tell.”

“You’re just as human as I am,” Harry hesitantly reached out to touch her shoulder, and his tenderness prompted an entirely new wave of sadness from her, “I know what it’s like to have instincts to do the wrong thing, Fleur. More than you know, even.”

“I could not understand myself,” Fleur leaned into his hand, “I just… _assumed_. I thought that you were drawing things out, making me wait until my instincts could take no more, before revealing your requirements to me. I listened to the worst parts of myself, rather than you.”

“There’s no worst parts of you,” Harry’s hand gripped her shoulder, and the steady pressure (nowhere hard enough to hurt) helped to centre her, “you’re you, and that means the Veela parts as well as everything else. That’s just one reason why you’re so amazing, and if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t be here today.”

“You are the amazing one,” Fleur protested, “I am just… no more than a pretty bauble, prone to flying into a rage because I am not even a real witch.”

“You’re one of the best people I know,” Harry pulled her into his chest, and all of Fleur’s strength left her body, “no matter what your blood is. We’re better than that, Fleur. Both of us.”

She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but she had no fight left in her to argue.

*************

Fleur had started to return to her normal self by the time they’d gone to bed, but even the next day, Harry noticed an uncharacteristic hesitance in her motions, a quiet tone in her voice which was nothing at all like the Fleur Delacour he knew.

Harry did his best to prepare her favourite breakfast, and she just smiled sadly in response, as if the gesture backfired somehow. He knew that he couldn’t fully understand what it was like to be a part-Veela, but Harry empathized with her struggles about being “human” more than it seemed like she understood.

 _Human beings don’t come back from the dead,_ Harry knew.

Out of everything they’d talked about the day before, it was the suggestion that he was manipulating those instincts of hers which sat most uncomfortably in his own thoughts. Harry knew that he wasn’t the most proactive man in general, and he was _certainly_ not the one to take the initiative in their relationship, but he’d never imagined that this could have been interpreted as a sort of guile.

He’d joined her in the bath, hoping that a long soak would serve to leech these fears away from her somehow, but this, too, seemed to be a temporary respite at best. She’d half-heartedly toweled herself dry, and then flopped onto their bed in a way that suggested she wasn’t tired, rather that she couldn’t figure out anything else she’d rather do.

_Well, I might as well see if there’s something I can do about that._

As much as Harry was loath to fall back on physical intimacy as a means of bypassing their disagreements, he understood better that Fleur inherently had a more _physical_ understanding of affection than he did, and that his own lack of initiative may have seemed taunting in a way.

Harry laid beside her, bringing Fleur’s body into his arms, and kissed the back of her neck softly.

“You are beautiful,” he reiterated.

She murmured a soft sound, not sounding convinced, so Harry tilted her to face him, bringing her into a soft, tender kiss.

“There’s nobody who understands me the way you do,” Harry continued, “nobody else who I’d rather have at my side.”

“You are a fool,” Fleur whispered, “but a sweet one.”

“I won’t argue that,” Harry chuckled, kissing her again, “but I am _your_ fool, and nobody can argue that.”

She kissed him back, and they slowly began to explore each other, their hands running over each others’ bodies as their kiss deepened.

Harry ran his fingertips down her chest, stroking her hardening nipples gently, before dipping between her legs. She cooed under his touch when he teased around her entrance, reaching down to grip his member in turn, and he started to grow hard in her grasp.

He kissed her more deeply, rolling on top of her, pulling his face back only far enough so that they could gaze into each others’ eyes.

“I want you,” Harry told her.

“You have me,” Fleur breathed, and resumed stroking him with her hand.

“No,” Harry clarified, kissing her again, “I _want_ you, Fleur. If you’re ready…?”

“Oh!” she looked at him, an uncharacteristic flash of insecurity ghosting over her features, “if you…”

Harry tilted his hips forwards, causing the tip of his cock to brush against her sex. The action drew short, gasping breaths from both of them, and he could feel the heat radiating from between her legs.

“Yes?” Harry paused.

“ _Oui!”_ Fleur gasped, “yes, _oui_ , please!”

The way that she lapsed in and out of French was confirmation enough of her enthusiasm.

Harry pushed himself forward a bit more, savouring the sensation as the head of his cock slid between her outer lips, and then he slowly continued, sinking into her a fraction of an inch at a time.

“I’m yours, Fleur,” Harry whispered, before he let himself push through her entrance entirely, breaching her for the first time.

“And I, yours,” Fleur gasped, as her legs hooked around the back of his hips, pulling him even deeper. Before he knew it, his entire length was inside her, and Harry was nearly overwhelmed by the sensation.

Fleur’s mouth was spectacular, without question, but even that could not compare to the sheer heat he felt surrounding his cock, the slick tightness gripping every inch of him as if she never wanted to let him go.

Cautiously, he began to rock his hips, and the short gasping noises she made gave him reason to pause for a moment, but the _needy_ utterances of French that he didn’t need to understand gave him the confidence to continue.

Harry could immediately tell he wasn’t going to last long; while his stamina had certainly improved since they’d started becoming intimate, nothing could have prepared him for how heavenly this felt. It was as if every inch of Fleur’s pussy was made for his cock, as she clenched and quivered around him in a way that he simply could not resist.

“Fleur,” he spoke, his tone worshipful, “I’m getting close.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Fleur hissed, “I want it. I want you to cum for me. Please, Harry.”

“Should I…?” he left the question up in the air.

“ _Non,_ inside, please,” Fleur begged, “it is safe, I ‘ave taken ze potion, please, ‘Arry, give me everything.”

After a few short moments, he did; his orgasm hit him like a thunderbolt, seeming to spark along his cock, up his spine, and then back down throughout his entire body.

Fleur clung to him more tightly than she had ever before, drawing him as deep inside of her as she could, her arms and legs wrapped around him in concert.

She muttered happily in French as he slowly slid free of her, and seized his head between her hands, planting a dozen quick, affectionate kisses all over his face all at once.

“Perfect.” Fleur murmured, “you are perfect.”

 _You are too,_ Harry thought, _and I hope you can understand that._

* * *

“So,” Sirius spoke, “we need to have a little chat, you and I.”

Fleur had been uncertain when he’d called her back to 12 Grimmauld Place for a “friendly coffee” (she had never seen Sirius drink the stuff), but now realized the intent behind this meeting.

“Do we?” Fleur asked, attempting to seem nonchalant.

“Harry mentioned to me,” Sirius reclined in his chair, “that you had some objections to his status as my heir.”

“Ah,” Fleur nodded, “I had… concerns. I trust Harry that he would not seek to take advantage of that status.”

“Let me be very clear,” Sirius seemed to think of what he wanted to say, “I don’t give the slightest fuck about the future of House Black.”

_Odd._

“No?” Fleur cautiously let him continue.

“My mum and dad weren’t the worst,” Sirius continued, “but at the same time, weren’t exactly going to win ‘parent of the year’ any time soon. My brother turned out alright in the end, but it cost him his life. My uncle was a horrible old miser, and of my cousins, the only one that was worth a damn was Andy, and she’s gone now.”

“A tragic loss,” Fleur agreed.

“Now that it’s just me and Harry left,” Sirius explained, “sure, there’s a chance to redeem the house, finally, but quite frankly, if Harry would rather leave it behind, then I’ve got no argument with that.”

“So, you do not expect…” Fleur tried to be diplomatic, “him to take a wife of Black?”

“Whether he does or not,” Sirius shrugged, “it’s not up to me. Harry’s spent long enough with his elders thinking they knew better for him than he did, I’m not going to be the next one to carry on that tradition.”

“I’m surprised that it means so little to you,” Fleur admitted.

“Would I like to know that the next generation of Blacks are going to be champions of the Light?” Sirius mused, “sure, that sounds great. But not at the cost of my godson’s happiness, and _certainly_ not because I want Harry to feel obligated to.”

“He says much the same,” Fleur nodded.

“Besides, there’s other ways than what you’re thinking,” Sirius waved his hand nonchalantly, “if, let’s say, Harry happens to have multiple children, then he could easily designate one of them as a Black, carry on the line through one family, rather than two.”

She hadn’t been aware of this possibility, and had to admit that it made sense, after thinking on it for a moment.

“You sound as if you expect Harry to become Lord Black soon,” Fleur cautiously asked.

“Azkaban… is not an easy place to live,” Sirius explained, “I’m not exactly planning on checking out any time soon, but I know I’m not going to be as long-lived as many wizards are. I want to stick around as long as I can, but to be serious for a moment, there’s a good chance that I’ll be gone by the time that Harry is my age.”

“That seems-“ Fleur started.

“Then again, I’m _always_ Sirius, aren’t I?” he grinned roguishly, and Fleur couldn’t help but groan at how she’d let him engage in his puns.

“I’m so proud of him, you know?” Sirius continued, “he’s carried burdens that would have broken a lesser man, and he’s somehow managed to come out the other side relatively intact, he’s still a _good_ man.”

“He is,” Fleur agreed, steeling herself for what would certainly come next.

“I want to see Harry happy,” Sirius stated, “and, as part of that, I am not shy about giving him advice when he requests it.”

“Is this a warning to me, then?” Fleur asked.

“Merlin, no,” Sirius chuckled, “you should know by now that I’m absolutely pants at pretending to be a parent of any sort, if Harry is happy with you, then I'm happy for him. Besides, if I wanted to call you in here for the whole ‘don’t you dare hurt my son’ speech, it loses some effectiveness because we both know that you’d take me apart in a heartbeat if it came to it.”

“I am not so sure,” Fleur muttered, “that I am what he needs.”

“Nobody but the two of you can answer that,” Sirius nodded, “but the way I see it? I don’t think that anyone else could handle him as well as you do. Sure, I’m not blind to the fact that you’d rather he does something more with his life than lie around like an idle, rich fop, but I can’t say I disagree with that, even if it sounds exhausting to me.”

“Then… why did you call me here, if not to warn me?” Fleur wondered.

“I think they’d approve, you know. His parents,” Sirius smiled sadly, “sure, James would have got as far as seeing that his kid managed to land a French Veela and celebrated it, but James and I were both a little bit shallow, all things considered. Lily? She’d see your accomplishments, your intelligence, and how you don’t let Harry run roughshod over you, and she’d respect that.”

Fleur had so rarely heard anyone talk about Harry’s parents so bluntly, she wasn’t sure how to react.

“Anyways,” Sirius continued, “if I was really trying to warn you to be good to him, I’d just mention the fact that you’d have Ron and Hermione to deal with, not me. Merlin, can Weasley ever be terrifying, and he’s nothing compared to Hermione.”

“That’s true,” Fleur agreed.

“The reason I called you here,” Sirius concluded, “is to tell you that you have _my_ approval, for whatever it’s worth. Black family aside, even ignoring that I’m Harry’s godfather, I think you kids will be good for each other. Don’t let the mistakes from my generation put that in danger.”

“I won’t,” Fleur promised.

*************

One of the immediate benefits of Harry and Fleur’s sex life becoming an actual _sex_ life was that it became a much more frequent and energetic occurrence.

They’d quickly experimented with a variety of positions and dynamics, and Harry found that he was pretty much a fan of everything.

At that moment, he kneeled behind her, with Fleur on her hands and knees in front of him, her arse up in the air at the perfect height for him to plunge into. Harry firmly gripped her cheeks with both hands, savouring every sensation that he experienced. 

“ _Oui,_ ” Fleur breathed, “I am close, keep going.”

Harry grinned and swatted her arse playfully, putting more force behind his thrusts. She somehow remained just as incredibly tight as the first time he’d slept with her, and though he did his very best to resist the boiling pleasure circling through his groin, Harry knew that he, too, was getting close.

He lost himself in the steady _thap, thap, thap_ of his hips against her arse, the way her flesh jiggled so appealingly against his strokes, and the sight of his cock disappearing inside of her over and over. Harry leaned forward, angling himself to reach deeper, and taking advantage of the chance to reach under her to fondle her breasts at the same time.

He had no hope of resisting when she climaxed for the first time with him inside of her, the way that her pussy gripped him and almost seemed to pull him deeper well and truly unmade him, as Harry spilled his cum inside of Fleur.

“ _More_ ,” Fleur begged, as he rolled off her, laying on his back beside her.

Harry pulled her into a deep kiss, and her fingers flew down to stroke along his length, which still stood hard from his hips, benefitting from the lightest touches of her Allure.

They both groaned with satisfaction when she sunk back down on top of him, sheathing his cock inside her in one torturously slow motion. For a moment, Harry was content simply to appreciate the sight, as Fleur rolled her hips against his sensitive manhood, her breasts heaving with her sensual motions.

He reached up to pull her back down to him, rolling his own hips upwards to meet one of her down-strokes, both of them moaning into the other’s mouth as they kissed hungrily while they _fucked_ each other.

If the first orgasm of the night had felt incredible, the sex which followed it was beyond words; she was so hot, so tight around him, and the cum he’d filled her with only served to lubricate her further, so that every single stroke felt like sheer liquid pleasure.

“Come again for me,” Fleur commanded, shifting so that her legs were bent in half, her feet practically in his armpits, “ _fill me_ , Harry.”

She emphasized her desire by slamming her hips down into his, driving herself down on to him with most of her considerable strength. Harry felt a wordless groan escape his lips as he plunged _deep_ inside of her, every thrust punctuated by a lewd, wet sound.

As he felt his second orgasm take him, Harry flew upwards, pulling his face into her breasts, latching his mouth around one of her nipples. He moaned his pleasure into her sensitive flesh, biting down hard enough to emphasize that she was not fully in control (as much as he was also happy to surrender this to her).

“Oh, _mon Dieu,_ ” Fleur gasped, “you feel so good, so deep, my Harry.”

“You feel incredible,” Harry agreed, as she rolled off of him.

“One more?” If Harry was feeling uncharitable, he might have said that Fleur was ‘begging’.

“I’m not sure if-“ Harry started, and then cut himself off with a hiss of pleasure, as she gripped his manhood once again.

“Let me use my magic,” Fleur whimpered, and Harry nodded enthusiastically. Her Allure wrapped around him in time with the strokes of her hand, and he gave himself over entirely, feeling lust and warmth overflowing through his thoughts.

Barely capable of rational thought, he rolled over top of her, taking a single moment to appreciate the sight of his seed spilling from her pussy before he plunged into her once more. It felt as if everything they’d done in bed that night had merely been a prelude to this act; every time he thrust into her depths, it felt as if Fleur’s cunt tried to suck him back in before he could withdraw.

“ _Oui,_ ” Fleur mumbled, before breaking off into a string of French.

Harry was, as always, utterly awestruck by her. Every part of her – from the long, graceful legs she had bent over his shoulders, to her full breasts jiggling under his thrusts, to her round and spankable arse clutched tightly in his hands – was absolutely perfect. Her deep blue eyes gazed up at him so intensely that he wondered if Fleur could see into his very soul, and the way that she seemed to feel just as much adoration towards him was practically inconceivable.

“Harder,” Fleur whined, and Harry obeyed. It felt as if he reached deeper and deeper with every stroke, until he could swear that there was no way that a woman so slender could have taken everything he was giving her.

“Yessss,” Fleur hissed, and she _locked_ around him, clenching him so tightly that he could not move even if he wanted to. It felt as if she were practically milking his cock, the sensation so intense that it immediately drew his third – and most powerful – orgasm of the night forth in an instant.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, when he remembered how to speak, “that was… amazing.”

“You are such a talented lover,” Fleur praised him, pulling him down to pepper kisses along his jawline, “so very gifted.”

Harry knew that her particularly unique form of magic had more to do with his ability to perform than his own attributes did, but he was certainly not going to argue with her on that topic.

“Mmmm,” Fleur continued to encourage him, reaching between her legs to wetly run her fingers along her sex, “I am so full, _mon amour,_ you claim me so well.”

“I can’t resist you,” Harry happily admitted, pressing a kiss against her lips.

“Just imagine,” Fleur whispered, “when we have children, how well you will _breed_ me.”

Beyond even the particularly carnal reactions this claim inspired, Harry found this thought to be very, _very_ appealing.

 _There’s a few things left to do before we get to that,_ he knew, but rather than worrying him, this particular part of his future sounded… well, ideal, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Veela Sex Magic ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> We're in the home stretch now, there's only really one lingering issue for these two to figure out before they're past the "a little bit mutually self-destructive" phase of their relationship and into more healthy forms of romance. This isn't the most eventful chapter, all things considered, but Fleur needed to get some lingering "but what if I'm not really human" doubts out of her mind once and for all. 
> 
> Comments are welcome!


	9. all our pretty songs *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry comes to an unsettling realization, but Fleur is there to make sure that he figures it out. The couple then reach some new milestones in their relationship.

“I’m telling you,” Sirius said exasperatedly, “this is _actually_ what they wear. Fashion simply doesn’t change quickly in these circles, it’s exactly the same as what was popular when I was your age.”

“You cannot be ser-“ Harry stopped himself just in time as he almost blundered into Sirius’s absolute favourite pun (which he used _far_ too often), “you must be joking. I look like bloody Dracula.”

He stood in front of a set of mirrors, modeling the cloak and robes set which Sirius had oh-so-helpfully guided him towards while helping Harry to fulfill Fleur’s “request” that he outfit himself appropriately for his status as a Lord of House Potter, Heir to House Black for the next event they had upcoming.

The swooping black robe, lined with crimson Acromantula silk and set with an ostentatious golden clasp, did not seem so much “lordly” to Harry as it did “super-villainous”.

“Hah, I’ve never met the man myself,” Sirius ignored Harry’s protests, “but if you wanted to intimidate the old Purebloods, that wouldn’t be a bad start.”

“Dracula is _real_?” Harry groaned.

“Well, not in the way that the Muggles picture him,” Sirius explained, “it’s actually the Impaler’s father who is the true Count Drakul, but, otherwise… not far off. Old Vampire, fearsomely powerful, the Wizarding world as a whole is lucky that he mostly tends to amuse himself with his own Court rather than seeking any further power.”

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered.

“Looks a little bit like me, too. Maybe I’m the one that should imitate his mien,” Sirius drew his cloak across his face, then flung it aside dramatically, baring his teeth and hissing.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry sighed with a chuckle, “why is it, anyway, that I have to represent House Black? I get that these are your house colours,” he gestured at the black, red, and gold, “and that’s fine and all, but you’re still Lord Black, yeah? Don’t you want to put on a show at these ghastly galas?”

“As much as I’d try to argue that it isn’t my scene,” Sirius answered, “it absolutely _is_ my scene, you’re right. I expect I’ll put in some appearances down the road, but this is the first major ‘proper society’ event, so it’s for the best if you publicly _stake_ your claim.”

“Was that a vampire pun?”

“Hah!” Sirius grinned roguishly, “see, you’re learning already, pup!”

“Actually, though,” Harry wasn’t quite reassured, “why am I still your heir? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but I figured, well… you might wind up with another one, yeah?”

“Ah,” Sirius’s grin fell, and he clasped a hand to Harry’s shoulder, “yeah, about that. I don’t have to remind you of just how awful Dementors are, but, well, to be honest with you, Harry, I should tell you some of the long-term effects.”

“Yeah?” Harry frowned at how uncharacteristically dour Sirius was behaving.

“Spending that long around them in Azkaban, it… _wears_ at a man. It’s not like I’m on death’s door or anything like that, so don’t worry yourself about it, but I have to admit that I’m somewhat diminished, even to this day.”

“Diminished how?” Harry didn’t like where this was going.

“There’s less of my soul left than there should be,” Sirius shrugged, “it doesn’t bother me much, to be honest with you, but there’s certain complications that it causes. I’m not going to live into my hundreds the way that many Wizards might, and there isn’t enough of me left to truly share with someone else.”

“But… you’re healthy, you’re alive,” Harry argued, “how does that work?”

“Having children isn’t a purely biological process for us Magicals,” Sirius explained, “even if I managed to get some lovely lady with child – and from what the Healers tell me, the odds of that are vanishingly slim – the poor kid would be _lucky_ to be born a Squib, and it would be much more likely that they’d suffer from some particularly horrendous spiritual maladies. It’s for the best if I just avoid that risk altogether.”

“That’s horrible, Sirius,” Harry grimaced, “is there anything that helps?”

“Spending time around my loved ones is good for the old soul,” Sirius shrugged, “but there’s only so much that can be done, in the end. Taking part in creating a life is a wondrous thing, and all that time in the company of Dementors, creatures of Death that they are, has tainted the wellspring that I can offer.”

Harry’s heart fell.

While it wasn’t exactly an imminent plan, he and Fleur had discussed starting a family together one day, and he’d never even heard of these risks that Sirius was describing, let alone considered how they might affect him.

**_I’m_ ** _a fucking “creature of Death” at this point…_

Harry knew full well that ordinary men did not return from the afterlife to destroy their enemies, and if Sirius had been so damaged by years in the presence of Dementors, then the way that Harry had spent most of his life with a chunk of Tom Riddle’s soul in his head must have had even more deleterious effects.

“Chin up, pup,” Sirius clapped his shoulder once again, “honestly, it doesn’t actually bother me that much. ‘Live fast, die young’, like the Muggles say, yeah? I never really saw myself as much of a parent anyways, so it’s no skin off my back. Let’s focus on something cheerier, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry did his best to smile in return, but found it hard to summon joy.

* * *

Harry knew he had to talk to Fleur about his recent discovery, but also knew that the conversation would likely lead to the end of their relationship.

 _Which is the right thing, really,_ he thought, _it would be unfair for me to shackle her to something like myself, when she could do so much more with her life._

“Hey,” Harry greeted her on returning home, slinging the enchanted bag which held his new sets of robes into the corner dejectedly.

“Ooh, a successful trip, then?” Fleur grinned, “would you care to model for me?”

“Um,” Harry started, then words failed him.

“Harry?” Fleur grew concerned, “what’s wrong?”

“We need to talk,” Harry spat out, “when I was shopping with Sirius, he and I got to talking about the whole ‘heir’ situation, and he told me about… something that happened to him.”

“That he cannot produce heirs of his own?” Fleur reached out to clasp Harry’s hands, and as much as he felt like he _should_ have pulled away from her, he couldn’t find the strength, “it is sad, of course, but it does not seem to trouble him over-much. He told me of the same, I’m sorry, I would have told you if I had known it was so important to you.”

“No, it’s not that,” Harry mumbled, and collapsed into a chair in their kitchen, “you should sit. There’s more to it I need to tell you.”

Fleur sat across from him as he suggested, her eyes wide with worry.

“It’s… the things that happened to Sirius, the effects they had on him?” Harry choked out, “I’m probably the same.”

“What do you mean?” Fleur looked shocked.

“If being around Dementors for twelve years mangled Sirius’s soul so badly that he can’t risk fathering children because they might turn out to be Dark Beings,” Harry explained, and the words felt like needles in his mouth, “then… Fleur, I’m not even _alive,_ properly, there’s absolutely no way that I could have kids.”

“Harry…” Fleur stared at him, “what in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

“When I fought Voldemort, at the end,” Harry sobbed, “I _died_ , Fleur. I died, I went somewhere else, but then I came back, because I needed to put a stop to him. That doesn’t happen!”

“I cannot imagine what that was like,” Fleur’s voice sounded soothing, “but, _mon trésor,_ you have told me this already. It does not trouble me.”

“I’m fucking _undead_!” Harry shouted, slapping his hand against the table, “it’s bad enough that I had a piece of fucking Voldemort in me, it’s worse that I saw the state of my own mangled soul after I died, but from what Sirius told me? Having children, making a life, that’s a magical thing. The dead can’t create life, Fleur. I can’t have children.”

“ _Non,_ Harry,” Fleur leaned back, and for some inexplicable reason, she seemed to relax, “you cannot be undead.”

“Listen to me,” Harry gasped, “I don’t know what I am, maybe a revenant, or a spirit possessing my own body, or even a Lich like fucking Voldemort was, but whatever I am, it’s some sort of dead _thing_.”

“Harry…” Fleur stared at him, and Harry was absolutely bewildered by the fact that she had started to _smirk_ , “you listen to _moi_. You **cannot** be the sort of creature you describe.”

“How am I not?” Harry slumped back in defeat, “this isn’t something you can just hope away, you know.”

Instead of replying with words, Fleur poked him in the forehead, and actually laughed while she did so.

“Oh, _mon cher imbécile_ ,” Fleur sighed (Harry recognized that she said ‘ _my sweet fool’_ ), “I have been patient with you for so long, but _this_ display of self-effacement is not one that I will tolerate. I know that you are actually a clever man, underneath your own defeatism, so I command you to **think** about what you are saying.”

“I have,” Harry argued, “it’s the only thing that makes sense. The rules of Magic are very clear; nothing returns from the dead, except through horrible violations of whatever is natural and right.”

“Hmm, ‘natural and right’ is a good way to put it, actually,” Fleur bafflingly smiled at him, “we just talked of this, two weeks ago. When it was my turn to misguidedly dread my own nature. You helped me through that, but in turn, you should realize why what you are claiming is impossible.”

“What?” Harry was not only existentially confused at this point, but also vexed by Fleur’s form of reassurance, “your nature?”

“Yes,” Fleur nodded.

“That you’re a Veela?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t understand how that matters,” Harry sighed, “I know it’s important to you, I’m not trying to take that away… but that’s not enough to undo what’s wrong with me.”

“Wrong?” Fleur giggled, a high, musical note, “you are lucky that you are so handsome, Harry, it makes this particular brand of stupidity slightly easier to tolerate.”

“But…” Harry was lost.

“I _am_ Veela, you are correct,” Fleur spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child, “which means…?”

Harry chewed on his own lip as he tried (and failed) to understand what she was getting at. He couldn’t puzzle out why she seemed so nonchalant about the revelation of his true nature, and he did not think that she was the type to cling to a comfortable delusion, yet she was disbelieving of his evidence.

“Please help me,” Harry breathed out, admitting his failure in this mystery, “I can’t figure out what you mean.”

“ _Mon chou,_ ” Fleur used one of her favourite terms of endearment for him, “I am a _Veela_. While I am also a woman, there is part of me that is a Magical Being, as you would say. My own nature, my essence, my _soul,_ as you describe, is not only tied to magic by what I can do as a Witch, but also by what I am as a Veela.”

“I knew that,” Harry tried his best to remember the various classifications of different so-called Magical Creatures, treating the conversation as if it were an academic topic, “but I don’t understand how it’s relevant to the fact that I’m… I’m also a Magical Being, I guess, unless I’m a Spirit…”

“You may well count as a Magical Being,” Fleur shrugged, “but you are certainly no Spirit. What sorts of creatures are Veela, _chou_?”

“Uh,” now he was _really_ confused, “avian? Associated with fire magic? The Allure is an innate form of lust charm, or something like it?”

“Well, I am glad that you learned a thing or two from being in Hermione’s company for so long,” Fleur smirked at him, “but think less about category, and more about nature.”

“You’re partly a… being of fire?” Harry was, at least, confused enough that he no longer felt actively distressed.

“Close,” Fleur leaned across the table, and pecked a kiss against his cheek, surprising him, “fire is indeed a part of me, as is lust and _la passion_ , and the true form of a Veela is that of a bird, a creature unrestrained and free. Does this remind you of anything?”

“A phoenix,” Harry answered, then frowned, as the gears in his head started to turn, “wait… are you saying?”

“What might I be saying, _mon petite monstre_?” Fleur teased, “I have guided you to the door, now you must open it, to find the answer yourself.”

“Uh,” Harry reeled back, his previous assumptions beginning to disintegrate, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have feathers, so I can’t actually be a phoenix, but, well, they _do_ have the whole ‘dies and gets reborn’ thing going on…”

“Indeed,” Fleur kissed him on the lips this time, “you grow closer to _la résponse_.”

“They’re not creatures of Death,” Harry understood that much, “they’re, um, creatures of Life?”

“Yes!” Fleur cheered, “you are almost there, my Harry!”

“ _You’re_ a creature of Life? Well, in part?” He guessed.

As a response, she kissed him deeply, causing his head to swim from the intensity of her affection alone.

“I am,” Fleur confirmed, “which is why you cannot possibly be a shade, a revenant, or any other sort of half-dead monstrosity. If you were, I would find you _disgusting,_ I would not be able to tolerate your presence, let alone to be with you as a lover. I know what you fear, but I promise you upon my very soul, you **are not** undead.”

“I…” Harry started to reply, but then lost his words as he broke down in tears. The relief he felt was indescribable, as if a weight that had been lingering for months had suddenly been cast aside in an instant.

“Your return was miraculous, _mon amor,_ ” Fleur spoke in a gentle voice as she swept in to embrace him, stroking his hair and clutching him against her chest, “perhaps you are not a phoenix in form, but there is something of the same essence in you, _non_?”

“Fawkes did heal my wounds, once,” Harry murmured, “and… hmm, he came back from the Killing Curse, too.”

“ _Exactament,_ ” Fleur hushed, “you might well be a Magical Being like myself, I cannot say for certain. But if you are, it is one that embodies Life itself, not the other side of the curtain.”

“God, Fleur,” Harry cried, “what would I do without you?”

“You will never have to find out,” she pulled him more tightly against herself.

*************

Fleur had realized that she had underestimated Harry for – what she hoped would be – the last time.

She had long believed that his habit of downplaying his accomplishments and refusing to acknowledge himself was a lingering remnant of his upbringing (in both the Magical and Muggle worlds), but had never thought that he had to realize that he was actually _alive_ in order to start living his life.

Since that momentous conversation, she’d noticed subtle changes taking root; he was faster to make jokes than he had been before, and was more willing to remind people who they were speaking to when particularly odious political opponents cast aspersions towards him. While the phrase seemed lacking, Fleur couldn’t disagree with Sirius’s assessment that Harry now possessed a certain “swagger”.

She was very much in favour of these developments.

So, too, did Harry’s growing confidence extend to other areas, which Fleur was even more in favour of. When she sat on their bed, brushing her hair before going to sleep, she was pleasantly surprised when Harry swooped in on her, kissing her deeply and pinning her underneath himself _without_ her having to initiate such advances.

“Ooh,” Fleur cooed, “you are amorous tonight, _mon tigre!_ ”

“Can you blame me?” Harry whispered into her ear, and the husky edge in his voice sent thrills down her neck, “after all, here you are, wearing nothing underneath your robe…”

He trailed his fingers slowly up her abdomen, as if providing evidence of her bare skin, and Fleur writhed under his touch.

“I would not hide myself from you,” Fleur teased, “not when you appreciate me in such a way.”

Harry kissed her firmly, shifting her robe open and planting his hand firmly on her breast. He was also becoming a more talented lover ( _we certainly practice enough,_ she thought with pride), and she had found that the balance of “power” in their bedroom had landed firmly in the middle of the two of them.

Certainly, Fleur still enjoyed the times when she would bend Harry to her whims and use him for her own pleasure, and was equally enthusiastic about the occasions when he would aggressively _claim_ her, taking what he wanted, but these sorts of nights – sweet, gentle, but no less passionate – were perhaps her favourite.

She moaned her pleasure into his mouth when he shifted his weight between her legs, bringing his hardening member to rest against her sex. Fleur ran her fingers softly through Harry’s hair, peppering the underside of his jaw with kisses when he reached down to divest himself of his sleeping pants.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry muttered, kissing her once more.

“So are you,” Fleur replied, running her hands along his bare shoulders as Harry slowly tilted his hips forward, his manhood easily slipping inside of her inch by satisfying inch. When he finally hilted his cock within her entirely, Fleur clenched the delicate muscles in her core, squeezing herself around him so that they could both feel each other to the fullest extent.

Harry’s tongue pushed into her mouth, and Fleur hummed with contentment as they languidly kissed each other more deeply. He began to slowly rock his hips back and forth, drawing his cock out of her with agonizing patience before thrusting back in with just the same measure of delicious restraint.

Fleur wrapped her legs around the back of his, just firmly enough to allow her to pull her hips up towards him in time, the two lovers easily matching each others’ pace perfectly, in what she believed was another demonstration of their perfect compatibility.

He squeezed her breast more firmly, and rolled her nipple between his thumb and fingers, just hard enough to be noticeable without escalating their love-making into anything more aggressive. In response, Fleur broke their kiss, and began to lick the side of Harry’s neck, planting her lips wetly against the spot where his jawline began.

“You always feel so good,” Harry groaned, and his hips came forward more forcefully, “fuck, it’s like you were made for me.”

“Perhaps I was,” Fleur murmured into his ear, before planting a fluttering kiss against it, “or perhaps you were for me.”

Harry’s hand left her breast, but the feeling of loss at its removal lingered only briefly before he ran his fingertips down her abdomen, then over her hip bones, finally coming to grip her bottom firmly. He used this subtle leverage to help pull her more tightly against him, and when combined with the more powerful thrusts he was beginning to employ, his manhood reached the slightest bit further inside of her.

Fleur was thankful for her Veela heritage in many ways, but one of the subtler aspects that they had discovered together was that she _could not_ experience any of the various forms of discomfort or unpleasant kinds of pain that their activities might have risked for other couples. Certainly, her ability to deep-throat his member was (quite literally) superhuman, but these traits seemed to extend so far as to make _any_ sensation she wanted to experience a pleasurable one.

While finding pleasure in it was certainly not strictly limited to Veela, one of these sensations was the deepest sort of penetration; she tilted her hips up towards him, adjusting her legs so that they were wrapped around his lower back instead, and Harry’s next thrust plunged deep enough that the tip of his manhood brushed against her cervix.

“So deep,” Fleur breathed in pleasure, “you are so deep inside me.”

“Well, I’ve got to give you everything I have, yeah?” Harry smirked to her, and his next thrust was hard enough to make her flesh ripple against his hips.

“Give me more, then,” Fleur teased back, squeezing down on him when he pulled back, making Harry moan from her intimate touch.

“If you say so,” Harry kissed her, and brought his hips down with an audible _thap_ against her skin, shocks of pleasure radiating through her when she felt a different sort of kiss deep inside of her.

She idly thought that another skill that Harry had developed was his improved stamina: when they first began to make love, she could make him climax almost at a whim, but now he was almost always able to bring her to her own peak before reaching his.

“ _Oui,_ ” Fleur moaned, “keep doing that, please, my Harry.”

His hips began to piston more quickly, filling her with long, _deep_ strokes. Every time his cock descended inside of her completely, stars burst through her vision, and soon she began to feel a familiar heat building between her legs.

Her arms joined her legs in wrapping around him, drawing him as closely against herself as she could. His chest crushed against her breasts, and the feel of his skin against hers set her nerves to tingling, both of their breaths coming in short, urgent pants.

“You are so good to me,” Fleur stared into his eyes, their faces only inches apart, “you make love to me so well. I love you.”

The words had spilled from her lips unplanned, but Fleur would never think to second-guess herself for saying what she felt.

“I love you too,” Harry replied without hesitation, and the warm flush that Fleur felt quickly built and built into – perhaps – the most powerful climax that she’d experienced to date. She crushed her lips against his to silence the moan she let out, so loud it might have been more accurately called a scream.

Fleur was dimly aware of Harry’s muscles tensing against her, a jolt running through his cock marking his own orgasm, and the sheer satisfaction she felt at the mutual timing of their climax was enough to set off a second, smaller peak of hers all by itself. 

When the stars cleared from her vision, Fleur kept her limbs wrapped around Harry, kissing him slowly and gently as he shuddered against her, before his weight pressed into her as his body relaxed.

“ _Incroyable,_ ” Fleur murmured contentedly.

“That really was,” Harry gasped, wedging one of his arms underneath her so that he could embrace her as well.

In all the ways that mattered, Fleur was truly satisfied.

* * *

Harry had known that this event was coming for a long time, but had found himself becoming increasingly nervous leading up to his dinner with Fleur’s family.

Sure, she had promised him that her relatives were all comfortable speaking English, so his own elementary ( _well, that’s probably an insult to school children,_ he thought) grasp of French wouldn’t be an impairment for him. Fleur had also reassured him that her family would adore him, despite his own lingering uncertainty that someone like _him_ couldn’t possibly be impressive enough to people like _her_.

For the most part his fears had indeed been unfounded, as the dinner had been lovely. Apolline Delacour – as much as she looked like she could have been Fleur’s slightly older sister – was a wise and mature woman, and Harry had been delighted to see Gabrielle in better circumstances, especially as Fleur’s sister was so excited to discuss how she was about to start at Beauxbatons soon.

Fleur’s father – Sébastien Delacour – on the other hand, had been enigmatic. While the man was boisterous and charismatic in a way which Harry assumed meant he could _never_ come off as cold or hostile, he hadn’t spoken much during dinner, and his limited conversation had been directed mostly at his wife or children.

When he had invited Harry to join him for a glass of brandy after dinner, Harry couldn’t help but feel like the awkward, nervous teenager which he actually was.

“From what I have heard, you are an impressive man,” Sébastien addressed Harry for the first time since they’d introduced each other, “you will have to forgive me for wishing to take your measure more directly, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry agreed, “Monsieur Delacour.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Sébastien waved his hand dismissively as he poured two healthy glasses of brandy, “your etiquette is perfectly acceptable. You did, of course, use the wrong fork for your salad, but this is hardly a thing which matters to me.”

“Ah,” Harry muttered, unsure how to reply, “thank you?”

“I will be blunt, as I am not the sort to wander around what I wish to say,” Sébastien stated, “in my time at our own Ministry, I have worked alongside several people who fought in the war against the previous Dark Lord, the predecessor to the one that you defeated. I consider myself to be an astute judge of character, and these experiences have led me to a particular observation.”

“Is that so?” Harry swallowed a gulp of brandy, hoping it would calm his nerves.

“I believe that there are three ways that war might affect a man,” Sébastien explained, “the first way is that some will learn that war is a terrible thing, and seek to celebrate life, to forever move past the horrors they have seen.”

“I know the type,” Harry could definitely think of a few examples of this phenomenon among his friends.

“The second,” Sébastien continued, “is that some will find themselves broken by what they have experienced. They will lose themselves in their duty, whatever it might be, consumed by the need to protect others from the battles they have fought.”

“Yeah,” Harry spoke, “I’ve seen that as well.”

“The final way,” Sébastien concluded, “are those who find that they were better suited to war than they are to peace. These men will always be fighting something, whether it is an enemy they seek out, or their own inner demons.”

“Ah,” Harry realized what he was getting at, “yeah.”

“Where I find myself uncertain,” Sébastien swirled his brandy around, “is which of these three sorts, if any of them, _you_ might be, Harry Potter.”

“How’s that?” Harry wondered, “I’ll admit, I thought that my own measure would be fairly obvious.”

“You are more complex than you believe, I suspect,” Sébastien smirked knowingly, “which, from what Fleur has said of your humble nature, is not altogether surprising. When I had heard of the awards you have received, the recognitions of your valour that you begrudgingly accept, I had thought that you might be the second sort of man, but it is plain to see this is not true.”

“I’m not much for glory,” Harry acknowledged, “but it seems to help other people if I make a show out of it.”

“When I thought of what you must have had to do to have earned those medals,” Sébastien continued, “I thought that, perhaps, you would be the third sort. But all it took was watching you indulge Gabrielle while she explained which classes she would be taking to see that this, too, is not entirely accurate.”

“I was just being decent,” Harry shrugged, “it wasn’t that long ago that I was a first-year, I remember what it was like to be that excited about something new.”

“Just so,” Sébastien agreed, “but it is clear that you are not the first type either, as I can plainly see how your gaze has hardened as soon as I raised this topic, how you are prepared to spring into action in a moment, even now.”

“Yeah.” Harry couldn’t argue.

“Why is it, do you think, that I ask these questions of you?” Sébastien queried.

“Well, I’d assume you want to make sure that I’m good enough for Fleur,” Harry met her father’s eyes for a moment, “which I understand, of course.”

“Hah!” Sébastien surprised Harry with his booming laughter, “not at all, Monsieur Potter! I may not be the most wise man in the world, but I am clever enough to know that if Fleur has already judged you to be worthy of her heart, then there is nothing I could ask which would give me cause to question her decision. Still, a fair assumption, and were I a suspicious sort myself, I would find it reassuring that you do not _presume_ that she would be yours.”

“Huh,” Harry was surprised, “then… why try to figure out what sort of man I am?”

“I wish to give you advice,” Sébastien’s tone became more solemn, “man to man, from one who loves a Veela to another. Whichever of these paths you might find yourself on, Fleur will be there to guide you along it. She is much like her mother, my darling Apolline, and neither are the sort of woman who would content themselves to see their man be anything other than great.”

“Ah,” Harry nodded, “yeah, she’s mentioned things like that before. I’m not too worried about it, really, she’s smarter than I am when it comes to all that.”

“This goes both ways, of course,” Sébastien met Harry’s eyes, “whichever path you decide to walk, so too will Fleur find herself filling the role that you require of her.”

“So, you’re warning me not to fall into that third category?” Harry asked, “not to drag her down with me?”

“Hardly,” Sébastien shrugged, a casual, relaxed gesture from him, “it is not up to me to decide what the two of you will do. Fleur has already gone to war beside you, and though it pained my heart to think of the danger she faced, you have both triumphed against a terrible foe already.”

“Fleur may also have told you,” Harry admitted, “that I’m really not the best at subtleties. Pardon my ignorance, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t understand your advice.”

“That is because I have not yet given my advice,” Sébastien grinned and sipped his brandy, “but I am happy to see that your patience _does_ have a limit! After all, I promised to be straightforward with you, and then I spent the last several minutes talking in circles.”

 _Merlin, the man’s playing me like a fiddle,_ Harry groaned internally.

“So, uh,” Harry drank some more of his own brandy, “you _do_ have advice for me, then?”

“ _Sans doute!”_ Sébastien proclaimed enthusiastically, “while I would advise that you never reveal that I have told you this, there is one secret that I have learned which I now offer to you: Veela are just _people_.”

“Er, yeah?” Harry thought that was fairly obvious, “I didn’t think otherwise?”

“Allow me to clarify,” Sébastien continued, “I have seen this with Fleur, with Apolline, even with Apolline’s mother; all three of them seem to believe that it is a purely Veela trait to be possessive, to have a taste for the finer things in life, to push their lover towards greater and greater heights. I love my wife with all my heart, and would never think to insult her, but I might whisper to myself that this is a foolish belief.”

“Oh?” Harry had, indeed, heard Fleur complain about the drives which her Veela instincts imparted.

“There are many men and women, Magical and Muggle alike,” Sébastien smiled easily, “who would easily outdo the most capricious Veela on their best days. My advice to you is that you do not allow yourself to be taken up by this tale, and to treat Fleur as you would any other woman that you might have loved.”

“But, well,” Harry protested, “Fleur _is_ more special than anyone else I’ve ever met.”

“Of course she is!” Sébastien happily agreed, “but I believe that you would feel that way even if she were a poor, powerless Muggleborn, rather than a rich, mighty Witch with magical lineage. Certainly, Fleur will appreciate grand displays of your affection, but I advise you not to forget the smaller things in their stead. Pick her a flower now and then, sing a silly little song to her, come up with a nickname which she claims to hate but smiles every time she hears it.”

“That… that makes sense,” Harry realized. He’d certainly always seen Fleur as someone _incredible_ , but even Harry had noticed that in their time living together, she seemed to be just as happy when they’d have a quiet night watching a film as she was on his arm at a Ministry gala.

“Veela may think themselves halfway to being goddesses,” Sébastien had a glint of amusement in his eye, “but I suspect that is because they find themselves with men who would worship them even if they hadn’t a drop of Veela blood in their veins. They are just people, albeit ones who sometimes have more feathers than you or I.”

“Thank you,” Harry was genuinely grateful for this reminder, “I’ll remember that.”

“Good!” Sébastien nodded, “because the two of you are inseperable, Harry. I see the way you look at one another, it is just the same as when I met Apolline.”

 _Yeah, I figure we are,_ Harry thought, _wouldn’t have it any other way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're finally past the last of the angst!
> 
> The concluding chapter coming up next will show the future for Harry and Fleur, and jump along through some particularly momentous occasions in their lives. 
> 
> Looking forward to hearing reactions to this chapter! I'm particularly curious if Sebastien Delacour's advice was as opaque as I intended, yet still made sense in an odd way :P


	10. and i say yeah *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vignettes from Fleur and Harry's relationship as it develops further and they grow alongside each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting note: phrases translated to/from French will be displayed in 
> 
> This chapter is basically pure fluff, with no angst to be found!

It was a perfect evening. The trip that Harry and Fleur had taken to France was coming to an end, and they’d chosen to spend their last night touring many of her favourite places in Magical Paris. Unlike the British counterparts (Diagon Alley and its shadier cousin), the magical community of Paris was haphazardly spread throughout various Muggle neighbourhoods, so the expedition had been a full-day activity.

Fleur had – of course – insisted that they did not neglect the sights to see in the Muggle world either, and Harry had been suitably impressed by their visits to the standard “tourist” destinations such as the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.

If they’d lingered for another week, they could have watched the celebrations of Bastille Day, but Fleur did not think that fireworks were a sight that either would appreciate as they were meant to be. _The sound is too close to that of an ambush by Apparition,_ Fleur recognized, _and the bursts of light in the sky far too reminiscent of curses glittering in the dark._

Each of them had made great strides in healing from the war, but Fleur wanted to leave this visit on a positive note, and besides, Harry had more than his fill of spectacle and celebration at the various Ministry events the pair had attended in the months previous. In many ways, their quiet and almost _ordinary_ adventure through Paris seemed to be better for the two of them.

While Fleur would always consider herself a French woman first and foremost, she had to admit that it no longer felt like home to her; that title had been usurped by the flat which she and Harry lived in on the outskirts of London. There was a small amount of bittersweetness with the realization that she was no longer the girl who’d grown up in this country, and so too the accompanying knowledge that her life might well look very different ten years down the road.

As befitted the rest of the day, she and Harry had chosen to end the night by taking a leisurely stroll along the banks of the Seine, passing a bottle of wine back and forth as they walked.

“Do you miss it?” Harry asked her.

“Yes, but also no,” Fleur answered, “it will always be where I am from, and nothing can replace those memories, but I would much prefer to make new ones.”

“I wonder,” Harry had a teasing note in his voice, “would you not rather live in a mansion in Paris? Perhaps a villa on the Riviera? Seems like that might suit you better than a flat outside London.”

“Maybe one day,” Fleur smiled, “but somehow, I find myself growing attached to the rain and mediocre coffee, _non_?”

“Hey, give us some credit,” Harry joked, “we _also_ have a comparatively underdeveloped dessert tradition to offer!”

“Oh, there’s more than that,” Fleur teased, “I seem to find that the company of English men has grown on me.”

“Has it? I hadn’t noticed!”

“Hush,” Fleur laughed and took the bottle of wine from Harry when he offered it, “lest I find myself tempted to make any obvious displays of my affection.”

“Hmm,” Harry murmured, “about that.”

He stopped walking, and when Fleur turned around to face Harry, she saw that he’d dropped to one knee. Her heart raced in her chest as she realized what he intended.

Objectively, Harry’s accent while speaking French was awful, and he stumbled over some of the words, his voice heavy with emotion, but the sentiment that he expressed was the only thing that mattered.

“Je ne peux pas imaginer ma vie sans toi,” Harry said. < _I can’t imagine my life without you in it. >_

“Veux-tu m’épouser?” he asked. < _Will you marry me? >_

He’d fished out a golden band which sparkled with diamonds surrounding a blood-red ruby, her favourite gemstone, a preference that she’d only mentioned offhandedly once. 

Fleur clasped her hands around his.

“We are meant to be together,” Fleur answered. < _Nous sommes faits pour être ensemble. >_

“Yes, of course, Harry.”

When he slid the ring over her finger, Fleur swore that she somehow felt as if it made her more complete, in some intangible way.

She had never decided on a suitable term to refer to Harry, even “lover” had seemed to be insufficient to describe the depths of their connection with each other, but now it seemed that “fiancé” had finally answered that riddle.

As soon as Harry rose to his feet, Fleur wrapped around him, kissing him with every ounce of love that she felt for the man who she’d happily spend her life with.

* * *

It was the most important day of Harry’s life.

He and Fleur had elected to have a long engagement, as they both recognized that each of the two of them had to put a bit more effort in at breaking free of the last lingering remnants of the war (Harry had even seen a Mind Healer for a while, at Sirius’s constant insistence). But now, a little over three years since that wonderful night in Paris, their wait had finally come to an end.

Harry thought it was kind of funny that as it turned out, even though he and Fleur had been one of the first couples to get engaged, several others had actually got married before them: Ron and Luna had tied the knot two years ago, Ginny and Neville the year after, and half a dozen more besides.

Now that it was his turn, the day seemed to fly by in an almost dreamlike blur; he’d rehearsed his vows over and over, had ensured that his tuxedo was perfectly put together, and was continually reassured that this was _actually_ happening by Ron (his Best Man) and Hermione (his Best Woman – Fleur and Harry’s wedding parties were not the most traditional) over and over throughout the day.

Everything he’d done to prepare flew from his mind the instant that Fleur walked through the doors, and Harry was certain that she had somehow become even more beautiful in her wedding dress.

Harry was barely even cognizant of the preamble leading to their vows, and remembered the words he planned to speak just in time to (surely) bumble his way through them, he was so awe-struck by the fact that Fleur was actually about to become his wife.

His hands almost trembled when he slipped her wedding band onto her finger. It was crafted of Goblin-wrought electrum, with one of Fawkes’s feathers coiled within the precious alloy of silver and gold, set with a glittering diamond that almost seemed to flicker with an inner flame when the ring found its home on Fleur’s hand.

Its partner that Fleur gracefully placed on his ring finger was equally enchanted; the gold had been cast in Veela flames at the hands of her clan, three of her own hairs were braided within the band, runes marked the inner surface that lay against his skin, and a trio of rubies surrounded a central diamond which had been cut from the same stone as the one on Fleur’s ring.

While their own vows might not have included the traditional oaths and Unbreakable Vows which traditional Wizarding weddings might have, Harry and Fleur both carried manifestations of each others’ magic on their hands, a bond that felt deeper than any words they might have exchanged.

_Speaking of “words”…_

Harry proudly announced “I do” when it came time to confirm his part in their marriage, and when he and Fleur kissed each other passionately for the first time as a married couple, he could have sworn that he felt her magic course through his very being.

Of course, judging from the cheeky smirk on her face when they separated from the kiss, Harry figured that she just might have touched him with a flicker of her Allure at the same time, but he would hardly complain about that.

“I love you,” Harry murmured, so that only she could hear.

“And I love you,” Fleur replied, and the rest of their life together began.

*************

The first year of their marriage had brought about a number of changes, though none were particularly substantial in the grand scheme of things. Harry had hired various contractors to repair his family’s home in Godric’s Hollow, and they’d moved into the Potter cottage (though with a particularly clever bit of charms which Fleur was _extremely_ proud of, the cottage contained an enchanted doorway which ensured that they were mere steps away from their London flat at any time), establishing their second home together.

Both Fleur and Harry had found employment; Fleur as a contractor who specialized in various security charms, wards, and rune-craft (often hired by Gringotts, though she was no longer an employee of theirs), while Harry had been hired by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in a role that seemed halfway between an investigator and a diplomat.

While it would have been absurd to suggest that they _never_ disagreed or even argued with each other, their marriage benefited from the work that each had done to resolve the lingering bad habits that each had developed during the war. Harry would always be a humble sort of man, but had finally learned to accept that he was uniquely talented in many regards, while Fleur had made great strides in handling conflict or turmoil in degrees, rather than extremes of “academic detachment” or “instinctual fury”.

This was not to say that their marriage was one that lacked passion; they would _always_ be hot-blooded types, even if they had moved past the angsty displays of their youth. While they may have learned the value of talking things out, their love life remained as fiery as it had begun.

It was, in fact, this fire which brought about the next significant change to their lives.

The pair were lounging around on a warm summer night, each with a drink in their hands, when Harry chose to run his fingers against Fleur’s side, where her top lifted just enough to expose her midriff.

“Ah!” she yelped, “your hands are cold!”

“Are they?” Harry smirked, “weren’t you just complaining you were too hot?”

“ _Bête_!” Fleur protested, playfully smacking at his hand. When Harry began to start tickling her with his chilly fingers, she responded by blowing against his neck, a hint of magic leaving her breath cool enough to immediately raise goosebumps against his flesh.

“Oh, is that so?” Harry teased, before he fished an ice cube from his glass in an instant, and pressed it into her cleavage. Fleur squawked in protest as she set her own drink aside, and shoved both her hands up Harry’s shirt, using a chilling charm to leave her touch as cold as ice.

Their beverages forgotten, the two wrestled for position on their couch, until Harry managed to pin Fleur’s arms above her head, though she wrapped her legs around her hips to assert her control over the situation. He leaned down to kiss her hard, and Fleur eagerly met his affection with her own, their kiss growing into a deep, passionate display before long.

“Ooh,” Fleur cooed, when Harry’s hand pushed up under her shirt and palmed her breast, “you _are_ a beast, it seems.”

Fleur happily shimmied against him when Harry pulled her shirt off, revealing her bare torso, then took advantage of his momentary distraction to free her arms, dipping her fingers under the back of his waistband to grip his bottom and pull him more tightly against herself.

“Mmm,” Fleur hummed against Harry’s lips, happily expressing her contentment. Before long, he was shirtless too, and shortly after that, the couple were entirely naked, their hands running over each other as Harry started to shift his hips towards hers.

“Wait, _un moment_ ,” Fleur paused, “you should know, I am not taking the potion any more.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, an intent look in his eye.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “so if you finish inside me…”

“You’re, uh, you’re ready for that?” Harry’s form tensed above her, almost shaking with anticipation.

“If you are,” Fleur told him, “of course.”

Harry pressed his lips into hers fiercely, while at the same time, his hips descended to meet hers, and his manhood filled her in an instant. Fleur gasped in pleasure at the familiar sensation, reaching up to tangle her fingers in Harry’s hair, stroking at his scalp with the tips of her fingernails.

“ _Oui,_ ” Fleur breathed as Harry pumped his hips _urgently_ against her, his pace more frantic than usual.

“Fuck,” Harry grunted, his voice hitching, “you’re so gorgeous.”

“Are you going to come already, my love?” Fleur teased, and ran one of her hands down his chest to toy at his nipple, “are you so eager to make me a mother?”

He kissed her again in lieu of a response, and from how his thrusts were beginning to become erratic and desperate, Fleur believed that this was very much the case.

“Cum for me,” she hissed into his ear, latching her legs around his hips to draw him even more deeply into herself, “I want you to fill me. _Breed_ me.”

“Oh god, Fleur,” Harry whined, and she craned her head up to suck at the side of his neck. He spasmed on top of her, and she felt his manhood throb inside her, doing just as she had demanded.

“So good,” Fleur murmured, stroking his hair as the last twitches of his orgasm subsided, “you will breed me so well, _mon coeur._ ”

Harry chuckled against her neck, which sent a pleasant tingle running down her spine. Fleur tensed her insides, and Harry shuddered again as her sex clenched around his manhood. She pushed her knee into his legs, turning the pair so that they lay side-by-side, and then with her on top of him, managing to reverse their positions while keeping his cock inside of her the whole time.

“Once is not enough,” Fleur commanded, as Harry’s hands latched onto her breasts, which had begun to sway as she slowly rocked her hips, “nowhere near enough.”

Fleur luxuriated in the wet slapping sounds which began to echo through their living room as she bounced on top of her husband, his manhood quickly swelling back to full hardness, as she intended to wring every _ounce_ of his seed from him before they went to sleep.

* * *

Harry had returned from his day at the office, fussing with his tie as soon as he walked through the door.

“Harry!” Fleur’s voice called out, “come to the kitchen!”

Curious, he did just that, finding his wife seated at the table, a piece of parchment in her hands.

“There is news for you,” Fleur announced, a coy expression on her face.

“Is there?” Harry pulled up a seat across from her, “what is it?”

“It seems,” Fleur explained, “that you will be receiving a new title.”

“Ugh,” Harry groaned, “what’s this one, now?”

The Ministry had certainly seen fit to have granted him all number of various medals and titles after the war, but he’d thought he was finally clear of those ceremonies.

“Well, it is one that you will not receive for a few months,” Fleur continued, “but I believe that you will be quite happy to bear this particular title.”

“A few months?” the wheels turned in Harry’s head, “wait, do you mean…?”

“Yes,” Fleur smiled brilliantly, “in the spring, you will be called ‘father’.”

Harry leapt from his seat to rush over and pull Fleur into an embrace, thrilled, terrified, and ecstatic in equal measures.

_We’re going to be parents._

* * *

The most important day of Harry’s life, it turned out, was not his wedding, but the birth of his daughter (he’d later come to find out that all of his children were equally the most important parts of his life, alongside Fleur).

He’d paced back and forth in front of the hospital room until he was fairly sure that he was going to wear a hole through the floor, his mind whirling with all the possibilities about what sort of father he might be.

When the nurse called him in, he rushed to Fleur’s side, holding her hand (she clutched his so tightly that he was fairly sure he sprained something) as she went through the final steps to bring their daughter into the world.

Their daughter’s first cry shook Harry to his soul, his mind-boggling realization that he and Fleur had made a _person_ together walking hand-in-hand with the overwhelming feeling of happiness that filled his thoughts, an emotion so powerful that he struggled to imagine what words could be sufficient to describe it.

“’Arry,” Fleur spoke weakly, “where is she?”

“She looks to be a healthy young girl,” the medi-witch who delivered their baby (Harry couldn’t even remember her name in that moment) spoke, before passing the swaddled child into Harry’s cautious arms.

“She’s right here, Fleur,” Harry spoke, amazed, as he looked into his daughter’s eyes.

 _She’s so tiny,_ he almost couldn’t believe it, _our child._

Harry carefully passed the girl to Fleur, who made a happy half-sobbing noise as she held her daughter for the first time. It was the most beautiful sight that Harry could remember, and he felt like he was floating in some kind of dream as he gently wrapped his arm around Fleur’s shoulders.

“Liliane Evelynn Potter,” Fleur quietly announced, “there you are.”

* * *

At times, it almost felt as if the years passed too quickly, but Fleur treasured (almost) every minute of hers and Harry’s lives after the birth of Liliane.

Their daughter – “Lily”, for short – had taken after both her parents as far as her appearance went, growing a thick mop of black hair (like Harry’s) which often wound up obscuring her bright blue eyes (like Fleur’s). Fleur suspected that her daughter would share her height when she was grown, since even as a child, Lily seemed to shoot up like a weed, often among the tallest of her friends.

Lily’s personality, meanwhile, seemed to be entirely _hers_. She was a sweet child, and ever-inquisitive, but as far as Fleur could tell, she lacked the same sort of intensity underlying her emotions that her parents possessed. Much like her father, Lily certainly wore her emotions on her sleeve, but her frequent outbursts of tears were just as transitory as her childlike fits of giggles, mere passing moods rather than any sort of predisposition to a certain state.

Her interests seemed to be equally as ephemeral; Lily was old enough to have started to vaguely understand Harry’s job, which had led to a short-lived fascination with Magical Beasts, before giving way to her current obsession of “birds”, both magical and mundane.

“D’dyou know,” Lily excitedly chattered, “owls have eyes so big that they can’t move them in their heads? ‘Zatswhy they turn their necks like that!”

Her daughter was perched ( _an appropriate term_ ) in front of Harry’s majestic owl, Hedwig, and Fleur could have sworn that the bird was clever enough to know when she was being spoken about.

“Owls can see in the dark,” Harry explained, “that’s why their eyes are so big.”

“Oooh,” Lily blinked her own large eyes in imitation, “d’you think I can see in the dark?”

“When you’re old enough to use magic,” Harry continued, “maybe we can find a spell that could do that.”

“Will it make my eyes as big as ‘Edwig’s?” Lily asked, “I hope so! She’s so pretty!”

The owl – reaffirming Fleur’s suspicions – started to preen herself after receiving the compliment, ruffling her feathers and standing a bit taller.

“You’re already a pretty little bird,” Harry teased, ruffling Lily’s hair absent-mindedly, “but you should say bye to Hedwig for now, she _does_ have a job to do, after all.”

“Aww,” Lily protested, “okay. Bye, ‘Edwig!”

Hedwig, in response, made a warbling noise of protest towards Harry, until Fleur’s husband broke off a bit of bacon from his breakfast and passed it to his owl, who was just placated enough to begrudgingly pick up the envelope Harry had given her and flap away to deliver it.

Lily made an excited noise and rushed off to watch the owl fly away, chattering excitedly the whole time.

“You know,” Fleur joked, “I think, sometimes, that I am not the first feathered woman that you fell in love with.”

“It’s a pretty tight race,” Harry chuckled, before leaning in to kiss her quickly, “but I suppose I could be convinced that I might be a little bit fonder of you.”

“Just a little, hmm?”

“Wouldn’t want either of you getting any more full of yourselves than you already are,” Harry teased, smirking as Fleur rolled her eyes in response.

Their breakfast was interrupted by a crashing sound from upstairs, announcing that their second child had started his own morning routine.

“Want me to go deal with that?” Harry asked, while Fleur sighed at this familiar sort of chaos.

“You have to get to work,” Fleur answered, “remind Liliane to come back and finish her breakfast on the way out, please?”

“Of course,” Harry gave her another quick kiss, “love you, have a good day.”

“I love you too,” Fleur answered, before making her way upstairs.

The birth of their son had come a couple of years after Liliane’s, and while Fleur loved him just as much as his sister, she sometimes wondered if by some unknown twist of magic, the boy had wound up inheriting Sirius Black’s traits instead of hers or Harry’s.

James Sebastian Potter was an _energetic_ child, to say the least, and when this was combined with the fact that he seemed to be showing signs of being a magical prodigy, resulted in his newfound habit of using magic to throw his toys around his room to announce that he’d awoken each morning.

Fleur was at least reassured that he was, in fact, Harry’s son by the fact that James seemed to be a near-spitting image of his father as a boy, except that his hair was somewhat reddish in colour compared to Harry’s black hair. Otherwise, James’s bright green eyes, gangly limbs, and complete lack of cautiousness were very much familiar to Fleur.

She was also reassured in the knowledge that she was actually James’s mother when she’d notice her son making the same expressions that his other namesake – Fleur’s own father – so often held on his face when Sébastien was also feeling mischievous.

Both of her children were the absolute best people that Fleur had ever met, but as much as she was happy to have put her consulting on hold while they were young, she had to admit that she was looking forward to when they were old enough to not require quite as much direct caring-for.

_Or at least old enough to understand that one cannot hurl their toys against the walls whenever they feel like it..._

As much as she may have been exasperated at times, Fleur wouldn’t have changed a thing. In fact, her and Harry had decided that they would keep adding to their family, planning for at least one more child in the future.

 _I just hope the next one is a bit quieter,_ Fleur laughed to herself, as she walked into James’s room and met her widely-grinning son, entirely too proud of his own accomplishments.

* * *

More than anything, Harry was surprised at how easily his life had fallen into place.

From where he’d started out, and all the horrible shite that he’d gone through during his childhood, it was almost shocking that “Harry Potter, happy family man and successful professional” now described him most accurately.

He’d never really intentionally set out to pursue his particular career, but he’d found himself uniquely suited for it when the opportunity arose; the DMLE created a new department under his supervision, with the unwieldy title of “Administration of Justice for Magical Beings”, an area very much like the Aurors, except dealing with cases where the aggrieved party was not a witch or wizard, but one of the many other kinds of magical people.

While the bulk of his duties kept him in the office or visiting different communities, it was even hands-on enough to keep Harry’s “saving people thing” contented. He certainly hadn’t wound up in any situations anywhere near as dangerous as the war, but Harry still found the occasional opportunity to flex his magical muscles for the sake of someone else.

_Of course, it’s not all rosy, I’m never gonna live down that time when Ron and I cleared out a nest of Lethifolds and I discovered my Patronus changed…_

Fleur’s career had been somewhat on-hold while she did the heavy lifting of raising their children, but it was hardly like she was stagnating: she still worked on several projects a year when she had the time, and now that their kids were getting to the age where they were starting at Hogwarts, the couple were sure to have more precious free time than they’d become used to.

The house was already quieter on the afternoon after they’d all seen Lily off onto the Hogwarts Express. It had been a tearful goodbye (not unusual, with Lily) that quickly became cheerful and hopeful after Harry had re-emphasized to her that it didn’t really matter which House she wound up sorted into – she’d find good friends no matter what.

Privately, Harry would have been shocked if Lily wound up in Slytherin like she had said that she was afraid of; while he always made sure to avoid pigeon-holing his children or leaving them with those sorts of expectations to live up to, he was pretty sure that she had the makings of either a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. 

James, of course, had already set his sights on Gryffindor the instant that Sirius had started vaguely alluding to his stories from the days of the Marauders. Harry’s older son was a handful and then some, leaving him with absolutely no doubt that the proclamations of “a third generation of Marauders!” would prove to be accurate.

His younger son – Perseus Wulfric Black – was quickly growing up to become the embodiment of an ironic form of revenge for the way that Sirius enabled James so much. A year his brother’s junior, Perseus was already a solemn, intelligent boy, albeit more focused on social dynamics than academic pursuits. In addition to his cunning, the fact that Perseus looked like a male Veela (shockingly tall for his age, blonde, with deep blue eyes) was going to be _trouble_ when he was old enough to start dating.

 _If anyone’s gonna wind up in Slytherin,_ Harry thought, _it’d be him._

This possibility didn’t bother Harry. He was well past the days of assuming that the house someone wound up sorted into preordained their quality as a person; the way that Theo Nott had become one of Harry’s most trusted compatriots at “the JMB” had served as clear proof of his previous short-sightedness.

His youngest daughter, Severine Jane Potter, was often more of a handful than the other three put together. Even though she was two years younger than Perseus, she could very nearly keep up with her brother’s more obscure vocabulary, and she could _definitely_ keep up with James’s taste for chaos. Severine – “ _Sev”, as she prefers right now_ – was a dynamo that always seemed to take up more of a room than should have been possible, considering how tiny she was.

When Harry had first made this observation, Fleur had broken down into cackles, asking him if he could possibly imagine where their daughter – a small, dark-haired, green eyed child with an inordinately large presence – could have got it from.

Sev had been particularly affected by Lily leaving for school, and Harry could already tell that he and Fleur would have to take extra care to make sure that Sev’s current sulk didn’t escalate into a week-long period of being inconsolable. Harry had no clue where she might wind up sorted into in the future, but he had no doubt that she was going to wind up in charge of her house by third year no matter which it was.

In Harry’s opinion, all four of his children were absolutely perfect.

With that said, he was also grateful for the rare chances he had to spend with Fleur when the kids weren’t around, which on that day, finally came when James had burnt off all his excitement, Sev had decided she wanted an early bedtime, and Perseus _always_ went to bed “at a responsible hour”.

“ _Mon dieu,_ ” Fleur sighed as she flopped onto their bed, “we have to do that three more times.”

“It won’t be so bad,” Harry chuckled, laying down on his back beside her, “well, not until Sev’s first day, that is.”

“Let’s pretend we can forget about that for now,” Fleur laughed, “at least the teachers might get used to James by the time that she starts.”

“They still won’t know what hit them,” Harry smiled, “they’re good kids, though. All of them.”

“Of course,” Fleur joked, “they are half me, after all.”

“You sure you don’t want to try for another one?” Harry teased her, “see if we can have a kid who’s a miniature you?”

“ _Merde_ , no,” Fleur groaned, “I love each and every one of them, but four is _enough_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry agreed, “still, though, y’know, we should stay sharp, just in case.”

“Oh?” Fleur arched an eyebrow, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

“Might as well keep practicing,” Harry joked, as he rolled over so that he lay on his side against Fleur, and started to trace his fingertips against her neck.

“You are impossible,” Fleur laughed, “ _that_ is how you flirt? You must be right, your skills have become sorely lacking.”

Harry leaned in to kiss the spot on her neck where his fingers had been, and Fleur made a pleasurable little sound in response.

“Oh, I’m still plenty skilled,” Harry whispered.

“Well, then,” Fleur looked up at him, before her arm snaked around him to tug at the back of his hair, “you’ll have to prove it.”

Harry fully planned to.

After all, despite everything they’d been through together, all the highs and lows over the years, Harry and Fleur still loved each other just as intensely as they had in their youths. Each of them would have gladly gone through _everything_ all over again if they had to, in order to make sure that they wound up with exactly this life they shared.

* * *

_The End_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out the sun rises after all!
> 
> This was an interesting little fic to write, which came with a few different successes as well as a couple misses in my own perception. While I'm glad that I took a crack at writing my take on a different version of the Second Wizarding War (in particular, I personally feel that chapter 5 has a couple of the better scenes I've ever written), I don't think I'm going to bother writing any other fics set during the war. It really started to seem at times that some readers had specific, pre-existing expectations of what _should_ have happened – regardless of what different-from-canon plot points I set up in advance or parallels I intended – which I suspect is an inherent risk of writing a story that is "like canon, but different". It's probably easier for readers if I start at a time when all the points of divergence from canon have already happened, and leave them as background information that comes up occasionally. 
> 
> I also feel pretty good about the way that Harry and Fleur's relationship was depicted, but I think that I need to start getting more explicit about tagging topic matter and/or themes I'm writing around. Even though I felt that I was pretty up-front in my notes about how I was portraying the beginning of their relationship (not _bad_ , but certainly not a fully healthy relationship), I'm left with the impression that it wasn't really obvious enough that some aspects such as "Fleur decides she's going to become a pseudo-therapist for Harry while also being his new girlfriend" were meant to be read as **bad ideas** that the pair would have to figure out, rather than just turmoil for the sake of it. 
> 
> That said, there's a lot I enjoyed about this fic! Fleur is a ton of fun to write, and I was glad that I took the opportunity to write a Harry who winds up getting a bit darker than he did in canon. Sirius and Snape were both characters I haven't written before, and I had a great time with both of their dialogue. Even though there's parts which have put me off certain types/aspects of any future fics I might write, it's been helpful for me to identify areas I can improve on! 
> 
> I also liked putting the names together for Harry and Fleur's children - I tried to stick to the general spirit of the kind of names Harry gave his canon children, and I wonder if anyone caught all the various kinds of "inspiration" behind their names!
> 
> I'm looking forward to hearing comments on this chapter and the fic as a whole - even if they're critical, I can still (hopefully) learn something!


End file.
